Sincerely, Gwen
by Ellen Jacee
Summary: Espionage, magic, intrigue, power, duels, and... ballroom dancing?
1. Chapter 1: Meet Me

Edited 1x

_Dear Francisco,_

I trust that you are doing well. I'm not – you are lucky to be in London, though there is a rumor that you have moved to Prague. As you know, I am in Paris –and not in the least happy about it. We're currently staying in the Griffen household while our manor is being renovated – Aunt Eloise expounded on their generosity to take us in, and based on this, I think them simply dreadful thus far. Furthermore, here, I do not have the anti-social reputation that I had in London, and I am expected to go to _parties._ In my world, this is a novel concept. Added on to this ridiculous expectation (as it is not in the least horrible to go to parties in the first place – quite frankly, there are lovely _buffets_ at parties) is the expectation that I _dance_. Simply and utterly horrifying.

And if I refuse? I am considered horrible, unfriendly, cruel, uptight and snobbish, and a list of other traits that would bore you to tears… all of them adding up to equal my former London reputation. Or so says Aunt Eloise. You may mock me for my petty concern, but my London reputation took a while to rack up; the French seem to already know 'my type,' of whom I have never met the equivalent of prior. In any case, it all means that, frankly, you are in London (or Prague) and I am in France. For some stupid reason.

When we finally reached Paris, it was near five o'clock (Paris time – to a degree. Did you know that they use military time here? What a pain.), yet Aunt Eloise maintained that I stay awake to 'watch over' Steph and Maria. Despite the fact that Steph has none of my wit (nor I her charm, which I am grateful for), she can be fairly intriguing company when you've naught else to do. Steph, as you know, is deceptive: I have a feeling that when we go to one of those dratted parties I'm obligated to attend, she will act what she looks – the beautiful airhead. Then, the tables will turn upon her admirers – you remember what happened at Salem Lake? I still can't help laughing at the thought of the deserving boy – Samuel, I believe it was? – plummeting into it. Accidentally, of course.

Then again, Steph seems to be wanting to change herself – I suppose she figures that starting a new life in a new town could lead to a different – and better (in her case) – future. And I am, once again, the one who must take the general 'backlash' of it all. Bluntly said, Steph has been begging me (discreetly) to change my ways – she has decided, I assume, to act like a proper 'lady.'

I'd love to see her try. Or, if not possible, I would like to see someone try to make her act like a proper lady.

Believe it or not, I _have_ actually decided to change my ways. I would like the Parisians to think of me as a snobbish, mean, unfriendly, horrible, uptight, cruel, strange, weird, _and _the tremendously _odd_ eccentric. Maybe, if I play my cards right, I can be thought of merely as the 'strict and evil eccentric.'

What a wonderful turn that would be.

Yes, in my transformation from 'peacekeeper' and 'lawmaker' (I can almost hear you laugh at 'peacemaker') I will keep my sword. It is hardly noticeable, and since when (imagine a mocking voice) has a lady known how to use such a thing? It would be folly! With this in mind, I hope that your lessons are coming along nicely. I was always best with the sword, and you with the bow. So be it. Ladies aren't supposed to know of either.

Coming to Paris has shown me the way we were generally 'supposed' to behave, and I swear to you – you could bring Joan of Arc back to life with the 'bloody clean way' we were supposed to behave.

Hopefully you don't mind. After all, if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have learned the bow. Sorry I mentioned that. I'm going to wait for news before I mail this. This could just be an excuse not to practice my faulty grasp of the French language, but I am sure I could pass it off with the excuse of 'waiting for news.'

Maria is doing well, recovering from her flu, but it still pains me to be around her, as she is always so bloody downcast and boring. I would think that she was anticipating an apocalypse. Lucky for Steph, even though Maria is prettier than her, Maria has that untouchable air that even I don't have – I envy it, though my reputation does enough of that – so people will most likely continue to prefer Steph, despite that she… you get the point.

Madame Griffen was quite obliging and kind, and was quick and sorry to say that her son was not home, but on military duty. I believe I will investigate her.

Two Days Later

I must say that my broad-spectrum effect to be an eccentric was simply astounding. It worked beautifully – it was faultless; people even stared! Before I hadn't quite thought it through – being an eccentric prevents people from socializing with you too much, you don't have to dance, people stare (that is usually a bonus. In this case, though, Steph did get quite a bit of attention, and I'll bet that she'll be getting even more once the strange – and somewhat frightened, I'm pleased to say – looks at me die out.), and the list goes on and on. You ought to try being an eccentric sometime, as no two eccentrics are alike. I have quite taken up this idea. I am under no false illusion that you would be a _great _eccentric, and here I go on about eccentricity as if it were a profession. I suppose it _could _be a profession though, as magic users seem to be rather eccentric, but that wouldn't be half-bad either. I actually entertain the reflection as a career choice once I cast off the burden of society. I have decided to add 'eccentric' to the list of careers that would suit me. It is likely to be chosen, as the only other item on the list is 'hermit' and compared to an eccentric…

First things first, even if they bore you: I was, in my opinion, wonderfully dressed, which, according to society, is simply terrifying. Aunt Eloise (I have half a mind to call her 'ant') bought me a new skirt – you know how I detest dresses. It is, to me magnificent, so, as I have tailored my tastes, it is revolting to the Parisians and Londonians (I suppose they're called) alike. It is ankle length and green, with a sheer over it that is of patchwork leaves and grasses. I refused to wear flowers. I did not wear stockings – much to Aunt Eloise's distaste - as I took into consideration the way it would add to my masquerade as an eccentric. One of my abiding beliefs, as you know, is to torment Aunt Eloise in every way possible. You know how she is a vegetarian – thus, the leather.

Unfortunately, not everything can be so magnificent as what has already happened, taking into contemplation that I have moved to Paris, which I consider ill fated.

Continuing (though I daresay you found that more interesting than the description of my clothing, but please allow me to have my moment of attention, which this entire letter is. At the end, you may find tacked on a bit about how are you, and so on, but that isn't really relevant or important):

So, naturally, I wore a vest – my green one that zips up in the back, I am sure you will be enthralled to know. Beneath that – yes, my traditional – a white shirt, but may I add that this time, the sleeves flared? Ha. I did something actually out of the ordinary. Only for the French.

My sword – you know it well enough, but I shall describe it for the sake of describing it – has a handsome sheath of hard leather, and the tip is capped in steel, for sheer looks and frivolity. You, of all people, know how many of those ghastly pink dresses with all of the Brussels lace (and my set of pearl bracelets, which, might I add, I did not mind losing in the least) I had to sell to buy the sword, and in memoir of that number – and my punishment – I had to buy that perfect sword, with the balanced blade, and the long hilt, no matter the frivolities. That blade is made of magic-enforced steel, and the hilt is wrapped in black leather… please reassure me that I am not over-reacting.

Back on topic: as you know, I wore no makeup (you remember Theresa?). And I paid no attention to my hair. Steph simply stared at me when I was ready to go, aghast. That reminds me: in my next letter, I must describe our home, for it is simply marvelous. Nothing like yours at Diamond Street, though. You must describe your home in Prague.

So we arrived at our first party, or 'fete,' in Paris. Luckily, Aunt Eloise can speak French. We were admitted to the Lamont's home, and I found myself thrust into a fete with at least two hundred attendees, Steph, my younger 'chaperone,' beside me.

Once young men began to dance with her, it wasn't that difficult to get lost. You simply cannot become an eccentric with someone like Steph by your side – I have become an aficionado when it comes to eccentrics and eccentricity, I feel.

The Lamont mansion – quite forthrightly, I got lost within minutes of wandering. It was in this fashion that I found my self on an upper–story balcony, very few people around. You probably don't understand the beautiful silence, as you have lived only in Prague and London, and it was enthralling. So wonderfully and magnificently quiet. Until some French idiot tapped me on the shoulder.

Lucky for me, he was _not _asking to dance, and he was one of the Lamont boys – around twenty-five, I would assume – but, he was asking, "For the sake of the safety of the people attending my festivity, would you please tell me who you are, and abandon your sword by the front?"

I'm afraid that Steph would be horrified at my reaction, but I couldn't resist. "Sir, my name is Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn and I refuse to discard my sword by the front doors. Your guests are safer if I've got it."

"Are you one of the security guards?" He inquired, rather hesitant, as my tone was cruel and high up.

I raised my chin, and though he was a good six inches taller than I was, managed to look 'down' at him scornfully. "I am no such barbaric person. And who are you, may I ask?" My tone was enough to send chills down anyone's spine, and if you heard that tone in London… you'd scram.

"The young Master Lamont. I apologize, but I am forced to remove your weapon," he reached for it. You can guess at what happened next.

I drew the blade, which was somewhat dumb, but 'the young Master Lamont' had almost _requested_ overreaction. "If you touch this sword or its scabbard without bleeding, I will personally disembowel you. Then, I will inform you how I rubbed rat poison up and down the blade. In short, you will die." I have this strange feeling that I am going to get a reputation as an evil eccentric rather faster and easier than I thought.

"Lady Gwendolyn, it is assumed that you don't know the etiquette of Paris-"

"I didn't know the etiquette of London either, yet somehow," I emphasized the somehow, "I got along quite nicely. Go now, but spread the word. Lady Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn will not put up with any… 'threats' to her sword. And just so you know _why _I won't let anyone touch it, would you like to accept the honor of taking a few swipes with my blade?"

You, of all people, won't find that last bit strange, but I'm sure he did. My sword, unlike me, needs to have an eminent reputation. I will just be considered its keeper. Yes, I do suppose I am obsessing, but remember the trouble I had to go through!

"Umm…"

"Here." I passed him the weapon expertly (if, in fact, there is such a thing as "passing expertly"), and had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Lamont's eyes widen in acknowledgement of my expert stance. Yes, there is a bit of exaggeration in this.

He took my cherished weapon, and I definitely saw appreciation in his eyes as he swiped it, as an amateur would, a few times. You know it - it has the best balance of anything I've ever tried, it's ornate with magnificent gripping… no reason someone shouldn't be awestricken with it. After a few minutes of agony – the Lamont kid, though older than I, was a horrible swordsman – I requested the blade back, and sheathed it.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I bought it. Now go. Don't think I can't use it." The look on his face was worth all of the reputation of eccentric his rumor would destroy. Unfortunately, however, he did not spread the rumor that well that night, as I got fewer odd looks later. My sword got two. Oh yes! Before I forget, I was approached by another young man. He walked up to me, and as hard as I tried to shrink into the shadows (not my style, I assure you), he came up and said,

"Nice sword. Lance told me about it – he's my brother. I'll try to keep him quiet, but he could be considered the biggest gossip in the city."

"No thank you for preventing his rumor," I replied coldly. "Ever thought that maybe I _wanted_ that tale told?"

The second 'other young Master Lamont' hesitated for a moment, taken aback, then returned to his efforts at socialization.

"I apologize; I'll convey the message to him at once. My name is Richard – Lamont, naturally," he countered cheerily, an edge of amusement in his voice. Then he turned and left abruptly. Thank goodness.

So, as the night was not really eventful past that – and I never danced – I conclude this letter by saying that we got into our carriage at around ten p.m. (our time, I assure you), which was early to leave the celebrations, and we left.

How are you? I hope you are doing well.

Thoughts and Fathoms,

The Repulsed Eccentric, who happens to be your Cousin of Near Equal Age,

Gwen

P.S. Where do you live in Prague? Address, please. I suppose that if you've really moved, the postal service will forward your mail. One can hope.

P.S.S. No, I did not forget your birthday. Happy birthday, or Bon Anniversaire, as they say here. Once you give me your address, I can mail your birthday gift, which I must deplore you, is beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2: Meetings Etc

_Dear Francisco,_

Having already bored you with my previous letter about that horrible boy – I may be being a bit harsh on him, but if you even try to keep up with London gossip, you have possibly heard of me, if not under a different name, - and that dreadful party, with, I might add, commendable food, I must endeavor to give you a description of my home.

Madame Griffen is tremendously interesting, and one of the few people I can consider a 'friend' in Paris. She is a great deal the eccentric, and whence I began to engage in conversation with her, she told me a great deal of useful information that I shall not irk you with. Either way, she is a bit obsessed with her military-al son, but most mothers are, and being the only friend I've got, I must make do. And our house was finished.

I live on a rather wide street, in a mansion, naturally, but it is more of a small mansion. The Griffen's and Lamont's mansion, for example, could qualify as a castle. That is not to say that it is not large though. I have a room to myself, as do Steph and Maria, though their chambers are rather far away from mine – the opposite side of the house, which is far enough away that I don't go there very often. Just about everything is wood carved with ornate little symbols, and the wood is stained rather darkly. We have three floors, an attic, and a basement, yet there are at least twelve staircases. This should tell you how absolutely massive it really is.

The foyer is domed, and goes up all three floors, with a balcony showing into the foyer on the second. My bedroom is in a tower off of the third floor, close to the attic, and thus it is small and round. To your amusement (as Aunt Eloise would never go up there, or approve of this if she saw it – she would tear it down) I have scrawled a sign on a piece of paper, and glued it cockeyed to my door. The sign says, 'If you don't have an appointment, please prepare yourself for disembowelment,' quite pleasantly, in scrolling French handwriting. I like it significantly, and in this strange house, it aids my homesickness. If I ever had any.

I have never seen the mansion before, and Aunt Eloise bought it out of a newspaper, but I was truly _horrified_ to see that our manor had _three domed glass ballrooms._ Aunt Eloise will never let us – me in particular – live without having a massive gathering (she calls it a 'ball') where we invite everyone simply to show off. Is there any help or consolation you can offer?

Moving on, you may laugh your head off – Aunt Eloise, despite the fact that she seems rather stupid, is incredibly cunning – enough to know that I have less power here. In short, you will certainly be laughing to know that I am going to wear a _dress_. It is sickening to me as well – I'd almost rather be mauled, but no one could get past the reach of my sword. Mail me with any good names for it please, will you? Fortuitously, I have argued with Aunt Eloise to the point where my dress will not be so… appalling:

It will be green and white.

It will have _no lace_ whatsoever.

I will pick the design. (This furthers my plan to become an eccentric)

I will be forced to wear no jewelry, and

I am allowed to don three ornamental daggers and a _crossbow_.

You know how I prefer long bow, but that would not fit, and Aunt Eloise is adamant that I at least have a few 'ladylike' qualities, and I do, but she protests that fighting is _not _a value _required_ in a higher-class lady of any worth. My reply to this was, "But I'm not of any worth, and I don't wish to be," which silenced her. She does not know, as an added fact, that my daggers will be tipped with tranquilizing poison. It is very difficult to get me to do anything without this sort of bribe.

As a general by-the-way fact, I am saving up for a bullwhip of equal quality to my sword. If you have any leftover pink dresses from the great conflagration, I'd love to take them – to sell, naturally.

Not that you care, but I don't get to write you much so I must fill my letters with small talk. I went to the bakery this morning, though we have plenty of servants to do that, I find that time to think and get away from the world. I put on my servant-boy masquerade (with my sword, naturally, though it was also disguised with dirt that I rubbed all over the sheath, and I bought that illusion to make the hilt look different to people), as I wouldn't be able to get fresh air at all if I didn't have that – Aunt Eloise would lock me in a spare room without meals for a day – and set off.

One great thing about Paris is the fresh bread every day. The smells mingle with ordinary street smells, and they remind me of London. Don't dwell in the past. How are you in Prague?

So I was walking down the street, glancing at signs here and there. All of them were in French (which, as you know, I can read, but my accent is atrocious – my Scottish accent though, is not bad), saying things like, 'Les Trois Hommes Riches,' (The Three Rich Men – a restaurant, I presume), 'Clochard Fête' (which was by far the weirdest – Hobo Party. I'm not sure I wanted to know what they specialized in), and, last but not least, as rather drab store called, 'Pâtisserie,' which I went into. Apparently, it did good business, as I had to wait a while for the line to subside, so I sat down, the dirty scruffy, yet tall, errand boy.

I sat and stared out the window, when I felt a familiar tap on my shoulder, which was strange, as in Paris very few things were familiar to me. I turned my attention from the window, to the person who tapped me, and nearly lost all my composure when I noted that it was none other than young Mr. Richard Lamont.

"That's a fine sword."

"I know it." I replied coolly, in a deeper voice than usual.

"I recognize it from somewhere – where did you get it?"

"Umm…."

"Nevermind. It's probably just a figment of my imagination," Mr. Lamont said, though I could see in his eyes that he thought that I had stolen it. "Who do you work for – I assume you do work for someone?"

"Yes, I am an errand boy – and servant – to Lady Gwendolyn."

"You sound rather educated for a servant boy," Lamont noted. My heart was beating rapidly, and I was almost certain it showed in my face, but that was dirty too. I take great pains in my disguises – remember that All Hallows Eve when I was the milkman? And the one lady actually thought I was? We had a good laugh at that…

Thinking hastily, I contradicted the best I could. "Lady Gwendolyn prefers her servants to be educated, as she believes they get better 'side work' if we're educated. I quite agree."

"So her name is Lady Gwendolyn? Lance had forgotten it. Please – say nothing of this meeting to her, will you?"

"I apologize sir - I cannot do such a thing. Lady Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn would dispose of my assistance immediately if she found out, and there was no importance of it, was there? If there was, I've missed it…"

"She keeps you that frightened?"

"No, no… look, I have to get my bread and get back to the mansion. I also have to do errands for Maria and Steph, and-"

"Not Lady Maria, and Lady Steph?"

"Just, never mind, drat… bye. Gotta go." Then I leapt up from the table, exhilarated by my close call. I grabbed my bread, dashed out the door, and ran for home. Out of breath, I slammed the side 'servant' door going through it, surprised a chimney sweep, and two of our house maids, and dashed up the steps quickly enough, just in time to change into my normal day clothing.

That was the general extent of the interesting part of my day – and week, as happily there were no more of those stupid parties, for which I was grateful.

Have you received my gift yet? If you haven't, I must betray the secret. I bought you – wanting oh so bad to keep it for myself – it is… yes, a bow. Not a piece of cloth – a wood crossbow. I trust you will like it, or already do. How isPrague? Have you practiced your bow or sword yet? Drat, I'm really horrible at interrogating people in mail. Please, though, tell me all about your life. I won't be nearly as bored with it as you are of mine. Trust me.

When I got home, I resolved to create a new – and better – masquerade costume. I believe that I shall do that when I have more spare time, and it will be illusion-heavy.

Steph and Maria hadn't yet woken up, so I tended to them (with a cup of ice water), then decided to take a walk, which Aunt Eloise forbade. I then convinced the mailman that there was some sort of festivity on the far side of Paris, and didn't he get off work? And thus, the mailman ran off to attend to some imaginary meeting. I have the slightest feeling that your mail to me will be delayed in being given to me because of this slight prank I have played.

Cordially and hilariously, In suspicion of Sir Lamont,

Gwen

P.S. I find that no matter how different places are, you can always use a pen. They can be weapons, writing tools, spilling-ink, and various other articles. A rather nice pen is enclosed, as you may need it in Prague.

* * *

Too fast? Too slow? Not enough writing? Please just give me your input. And even if I don't update the online chapter, I'll update my own files - and those actually matter.

Please?


	3. Chapter 3: Maria

_Dear Francisco,_

I am glad to hear that you are doing well. I am too, bluntly speaking, and to the point. I have now started another spy network – consisting of one person only,

so far, that person being I. Being in Halo, you wouldn't know how my Underground is doing, as I appointed a new Master (Celia), as she was easily my second in command. I also would like to know how Agent is doing. He was rising in ranks fast. I hope Celia and you are doing well, though it is easy to say that I am not. I have gotten a few gossips to give me all the gossip that they hear, but that isn't the same thing as an actual _spy._ You know – I could get Maria, even though it pains me to be anywhere near her – to work for me. She could be great. I'll look into that and tell you.

So the news of my gossips? Nothing good. Lady Martha is engaged to Sir Jean. (I don't have a high opinion of her.) A new store is opening on 'Croix Plaza.' See my general dilemma? It takes a full-time spy to uncover any good news in Paris, unlike the London news. Tell me – please – if you know any loyal Parisians looking for work that would be any good when it comes to my network, which, whence it becomes multi person, will be called my Élite Sector.

Having said enough on this topic, I would like you to know that yesterday I went on a historical tour of Paris, which was simply fascinating. Since you know even more on that subject than I do, I won't elaborate, but to say that there were some beautiful castles and manors that we passed that were not a part of the tours.

Also, I met Mr. Lamont – not Lance, but Richard.

Not in my masquerade, though, which I have yet to re-create. I was getting some of the little fresh air that I was permitted to get by Aunt Eloise's rule, and I am only writing this because Mr. Lamont (both Lance and Richard) pose a threat. Anyway, I was strolling along in the park in the most unladylike manner possible (on purpose), my sword attached to my belt, still dirty with the grunge I had rubbed all over it for my costume as a boy. I was carrying my traditional pen – did you like the one I sent you? – which, as you know, also serves as a dagger – you shouldn't be unprepared, and I began to whistle, when I passed Mr. Richard Lamont, who, I could swear, I hadn't seen. I stopped whistling long enough to nod in his direction, and unwittingly I was entered in a staring contest in which Sir Lamont gave me an odd look (and my lovely sword – I still haven't chosen a name for it) and turned his eyes to the ground before I did. Ha.

Guess what! I have, finally, a spy! Maria just – she absolutely changed when I sort of back-handedly mentioned it to her! Sorry for replacing you, but being in Halo, you couldn't help me _that _much. Maria, when I started hinting about spying, stared at me until I began to get desperate – and more down-to-earth. Then she said, with perfect tranquillity, "Oh, you mean spying?" and I nearly choked on my tongue.

"Uh, yes, I suppose," I replied.

"You mean…?"

"In London I had a spying ring – the Underground. You may have heard of it?"

"_You_ ran the Underground?"

"Um, yes. So could you be my second in command…? I'm sort of short on aides right now…"

"Definitely, I mean…" It turns out that she'd done this before, and you know how we had code names in the Underground, and we didn't really know who belonged in it? Maria was a part of the Underground – and guess what her code name was?

Yep. She was Agent.

I never knew Maria to be anything but some sort of… unenthusiast, I suppose. It was all a cover up. She seemed to go day through day, dragging down everyone's spirits with her 'I'm so bored' talk and her moaning. Remember how she always wore some sort of gray? She always walked around with her shoulders hunched; she always had that ashen and grave pale face, and Francisco, frankly, it was all a show. I have a feeling that Maria is going to end up extremely interesting. Either way, I told her to drop her act of being so sorrowful, as it put people off, but she's still got that wonderful aura of being an untouchable person that I had to work for.

Basically, I am being tremendously bored in Paris, and I finally decided to re-do my costume, but this time, I'm going to do so incredibly thoroughly.

It started when Aunt Eloise locked me in my bedroom – for neglecting to care for Steph, for creating a 'negative' image of our family, and a list of other faux pas (in the plural) that I have long since forgotten. So I was locked in my room – with meals, thankfully, - and you know very well of all of my junk. I sat on my bed and stared at the ceiling for a good while, then moved to stare out the window. Upon deciding that staring out the window was boring, I thought a while and decided that making my servant costume would be the most beneficial thing I could do. Thus was my thought process; you can guess how absolutely jaded I was.

I began, and you know how many spare dresses and petticoats I have, tearing my spare clothing apart, with the aid of scissors – I cut my finger. Blood got on some of the clothing, but all the better as a costume of a ruffian. Now, after hours of toil, I have three different costumes, all set with permanent illusions with the worth of jewels.

The first is merely my traditional costume with an illusion on it that makes me seem taller. I added another illusion that made me seem scruffy, dirty, and malnourished – that one was cheap.

My second uniform was that of a well off, but not rich, person, so that I might fit in. Nothing was really strange about that costume, but it is still chucked full of illusions. Oh- I also _made_ a voice interceptor. My voice will now sound like whatever I wish it to be. My mage talent seems to be growing more and more – I'll have to look into that.

Finally – though this masquerade is merely for the sake of looking at, as if I wore it… - I made a masquerade – my dream masquerade. Logically, it was of several shades of green and white. It relies on very few illusions, as I can see through them and I just love to stare at this costume. There is a facemask that points my chin that is this dark burgundy color. The eyeholes are shaped like distorted maple leaves (it took forever to carve them), and there are two nostril-holes, but no mouth. It attaches with an invention that points the tips of my ears. I made khaki pants that flare starting at my knees, and a green shirt with long sleeves that begin to flare at my elbows. Then I have a short caplet in white above that. Sometime, I might send you a portrait.

Having completed my costumes, I was simply amazed to find out that _I had nothing else to do. _It was amazing – a feeling I have never yet felt. Yeah right. Being thus oriented, I decided to test out more of my magic, for which I seem to have a talent. You know how Maria's bedroom is on the other side of the house? Being Agent, it is better that we can talk automatically and easily, so any first-class scouts I employ will receive a new 'newbie pack':

Ladies 

1 small pocket mirror

1 screwdriver

12 magnets (disguised as random items)

2 bobbins of steel thread (disguised as blue thread)

7 needles

And anything else they might need for a specific mission.

Gentlemen

1 cheap (disguised as high-quality) pocket watch

1 screwdriver

1 small ornamental sword (cheap)

7 pieces of string of varied lengths

And anything else they might need for _their _mission

Knowing you, you were probably bored with my espionage service bonus descriptions, but you will be interested (or outraged) to know that I might do service commercially. Naturally, I would not do any assassinations – I would just gather information for people or sell it to them. I could make a good profit doing this, and I have written up profit ratios and etc, but I doubt you want to read twelve pages of boring mathematical equations. Heck, _I _even find them boring.

So I jinxed my wall. I was _trying_ to jinx my palm, so that my spies could access me at any time at all. No luck. The jinx went awry and hit the wall, so now I have the real-life equivalent of a massive scrying glass, and I'll have to try some other time to jinx my hand. Everyone else will just get a jinxed object to contact me, except for possibly Maria. I might jinx her wall, too. NOT on accident. If I can aim.

And I have decided to hire thieves, _not_ assassins. Thieves and spies – not a very original mix.

Did you know that in Paris, girls above the age of 14 don't go to school? I know. It's pathetic. I might try to do something about this, and if you have any ideas, fire away! After all, my education only ended a year ago, and if I could corrupt some of them to join ES, that'd be great.

Solemnly,

Gwen


	4. Chapter 4: What the?

_Dear Francisco,_

I trust you are doing well. I know my letters are quite tedious and dreary, as most of them include a) parties or b) my spy network, which you aren't a part of. This letter is the same as the others, basically.

You know how Madame Griffen was so kind? She is now drilling me – her son came back off of 'military duty,' and she is holding a massive _ball._ I am invited, and I simply _must _go, according to her. I expect it to be torture, but Aunt Eloise is making me. Steph wasn't invited though, which gives me high hopes that it is some sort of congregation of eccentrics. I suppose I am being naïve. Oh well.

Maybe I'll have a headache or some sort of illness when that dreaded party comes. All sorts of people were invited, and I'm surprised that Steph wasn't. Hmm…

Madame Griffen could also be great as an emissary. That would widen my ranks to three, and be a major breakthrough. Still, I don't really like the way she's acting now. It depresses me. As if.

Sorry for thinking in this letter, but I've decided not to have a headache the day. Aunt Eloise has gotten my new dress, after a great deal of haggling and grumbling from me, and even _I_ like it. Instead of describing it, I have enclosed a picture. And plus, I get to wear a crossbow, my daggers, and my sword, naturally, so what better a place than Mme Griffen's? She'll understand. I shall never forgive Lance Lamont fully for that incident. The fool.

Maria, just so you know, is doing wonderfully as a spy – nothing like you though, I assure you. She has uncovered quite a bit, of which I shall reveal only a portion.

Many 'Frenchies' come from London and other parts of England.

There is this _awesome_ French black-market, which I shall soon be taking advantage of.

People detest being corrected here, even more so than in London.

This last bit should be obvious, as most people dislike being corrected, and I sincerely apologize that I can give you no news of Prague. I also plan to further spread the circumference of my usefulness. Tell me if you know anyone – aside from yourself, of course, - that could qualify as an agent in Prague.

That reminds me! (For some odd reason) I saw Monsieur Lamont again, though in my disguise. The conversation we held was quite intriguing. I was picking up bread from the pastry shop again, and apparently this is one of Lamont's preferred bakeries, as he was there again, and noticed me.

"Bonjour, vous aimez le pain?" he so rudely conducted, then converting to English. "You like their bread?"

"Yes," I said, rather coldly, looking him in the eye. "And I'll be getting it _now. _Tu es merde._"_

"So Lady Gwendolyn also allows you to back talk your superiors… calling them 'dung' though, is a bit much, isn't it? And as I remember, Gwen – Lady Gwendolyn's – manor is on my way home as well," he stared down at me amusedly. It made me sick.

"_Gwen? _You called her _Gwen?_" my face held an evil smirk. To my pleasure, he blushed.

"Uh…"

"Nevermind. Sure, it is. And she doesn't believe in the notions of class superiority. Only educational and physical superiority. Feel free to walk home with me, O Superior," I laughed again, my voice the rough servant's voice. "But only if your beloved reputation may not be sullied with my mere dirty presence, O Prince," I laughed again, and he tried to interrupt me. "Shut up. Fine." I finished, grabbing the sack that held my freshly baked bread and shoving my way through the door, Sir Richard Lamont in pursuit.

After walking in silence a great deal of the way, Lamont spoke up. "I'll make you a deal."

"What?" I raised my eyebrows, intrigued.

"We fight, using swords. No jinxes or anything at all. If I win, you give me one of you or Lady Tonn's secrets. If you win, you get three of my secrets. Deal?"

"Why the hell would you want the Lady's secrets?" I noted his flinch at my frank speech.

"Let's just say I've got a few… 'suspicions.'"

"Deal. I'll win though."

"Okay. Follow me, we'll go to a place by my castle. No one will notice that you're gone though, will they?"

"Nah."

So then he led me to a small courtyard by his mansion. It was reaching its demise, and it was rather dark and gloomy, scraggly haggard weeds growing around the edges of the tiles that made up the pathway, the grass at least knee height. I drew Spiristor – the name I finally decided to give my sword – and he drew his scrawny little unbalanced pathetic blade, we crossed them, and we fought.

I must admit that it was quite easy to win against him, and even he knew after a few minutes that I would win, but I give the imbecile credit. He kept fighting, trying to wear down my energy, but you know how that works. I start breathing hard by the fifth minute, and then through some genetical wonder, I regain all my strength and feel no more than a little sore in all my muscles.

Finally, I cornered the egotistical M. Lamont, and he threw down his blade in surrender. I am pleased to say that he had a few little gashes here and there that would require amateur medical attention.

"You lost. Ha ha." I mocked him.

"No I didn't, you cheat." He smiled, and his eyes showed me that he truly thought he'd won. "Didn't I say no jinxes or anything like that?"

"Sure. I didn't jinx you or myself." I said that, but I felt my heart sink.

"Did I ever tell you that I can sense magic? Or did you think I'd just trust you to not jinx me, you who fight all too well to be a mere servant, and you who could be one of the higher wizard-priests? Don't play coy with me. Who are you?" Then, with a much harder edge, commanding, coaxing, he said, "Tell me."

The words Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn rose in my throat, but I managed to shout, "No." Then, they were shoved back, never to be commanded out of me again, I believe.

"Alright then, I'll just trace you." Richard Lamont drew a blue line in the air, a rather short one. It reconfigured itself into a jumble that was about to form letters. I stared rather hard at it, and the once possible letters turned into a messy oblivion.

"A pact. I tell you who I am for three secrets." I breathed, beads of sweat trickling down my brow.

"I have given you plenty more than that, but fine. I'm quite intrigued."

"As if I couldn't figure that out," I stated, sarcastically. M. Lamont deserves to be riled, and he might eventually be a rather useful nark, if I can train him. Then I grinned malignantly. "You first. Or I'll force them out of you." I don't know why I added that last bit, but it added some nice flair.

"No. Tell me who you are." The impudent creep.

"Yes sir, O high and mighty Prince of Serbs, but I have my ways too. I suggest you respect them, and your secrets… I have a better proposal," I lifted my illusions, and watched the look of horror on his face. "Work for me."

"Miss Tonn! I – I sincerely apologize, I didn't kno-"

I love torturing people, and you know how wonderful I am at it, too. "I suggest that you wait to give me the three secrets you owe me or choose to work for me, and I would give you a job description, as now is not that great a moment for me. I suggest you give me the information at the Griffen ball, provided you were invited, naturally. Nark." I grinned even more spitefully, a touch of humor behind my fowl features.

Sir Lamont smiled, as if amused at being tricked, then muttered, so that I could only barely catch what he was saying, "John and you'll get along great. Gees, you remind me of him so much…"

"Me et personne get along great, so I suggest you, so kindly, escort me home, though I am perfectly capable to do so myself. Wait – I'll just put my illusions back on." As you know, in French, 'personne' means 'no one.'

"One second. What's this job description?"

"I'll get it to you," I replied, oh so vaguely, and quickly ran in servant's garb out of the courtyard and back home. Quite eventful. Here is a copy of the job description:

_**I invite you, Sir Richard Lamont, to join the Elite Sector, a new guild whose basis lies in espionage and the likes. Run by the infamous leader, who also started such collaboration as the massive Underworld Mission, the Elite Sector may at some point be world-renowned. Unfortunately, however, this indicates that the manager of the Underworld Mission has resigned and thus appointed another, less competent, tactician for raiding and the likes. Presently, our numbers are minimal, but we would love to receive your membership. In the case that you accept, you will be asked to report all information to a pocket watch you will be given, and you may, if found competent, be promoted to field work. You will be given a code name, and will not reveal yourself to even other members of the guild no matter who they may be. If you are found a traitor, your memory will be knowledge locked by one practiced in such arts. If you inform anyone about this letter, your memory will be wiped.**_

_**Thanks greatly,**_

_**Lord Jargoneclutz**_

I'd love to see M. Lamont's expression when he finds the letter folded up in a manila envelope on his bed, his windows locked. Yup, I sent Maria, my one field agent.

I just got your letter, and I'll actually respond as quick as I can, but I first need to describe Mme Griffen's ball.

I wore my new green and white dress (no socks, naturally), and a leather belt that held my sword and the three poison tipped daggers. The crossbow that Aunt Eloise was so opposed to was strung around my neck, and I managed to bargain in a quiver of poison tipped arrows (but I was forced to smuggle the poison). Instead of my moccasins, I wore tall leather boots, for the sole purpose that I could smuggle in a few more weapons. I am slightly obsessed.

Maria looked great too, and I also managed to get Aunt Eloise's permission for her to wear a dagger on her belt. Aunt Eloise fought rather hard to keep Maria going weaponless, so I rather like to think that since I turned out so rebellious and eccentric, she's trying to keep Maria out of my clutches. I'm too far-gone to be remedied.

Our two coaches finally caught up with us in Paris, so Maria and I were escorted to the Griffen home in 'style.' We had to get new horses (or Aunt simply wanted them), and instead of the usual dappled Jewel and Flora, we now have two beautiful chestnuts with black manes named Sorrel and Artemis. Believe it or not, I prefer them to Jewel and Flora, who were Steph's trained horses 100. Especially Sorrel.

We finally reached the Griffen hall, which was decorated in every way imaginable. Lights were hung from every surface, the gardens immaculate. Couples were already walking through the gardens together, sickeningly. It didn't look very strange at all. I wondered why Steph hadn't been invited.

Maria and I evacuated the coach and Maria tried to lead me to the reception hall, but I stopped her.

"You think that in all my years of spying I haven't found a second entrance to parties like this? Pah, follow me, amateur."

She smiled and did as she'd been told, and I followed a little worn path to the side of the manor. "Watch and learn," I told her, taking out my special skeleton keys and two illusion spells. I gave her one (both were multi use), and I picked the lock rather deftly. I am not above self flattery.

Our illusions made us look like servants, and we entered the hall without incident, taking off the illusions in the powder room. Maria then complemented me, "Sweet."

"Yeah. It rocks," I replied, without a moment's hesitation. Then we went our separate ways, Maria left, and me? To the smell of food. Unfortunately, I had to walk through a ballroom on the way to the buffet, which proved my undoing. (You'd think I'd be fat because of this constant feasting.)

I was innocently traipsing through the seemingly gilded hall with my weapons strapped to my body in every visible area (I had forgotten them, as they weren't awkward). Because of my reluctance to dance, I kept to the edge of the room, near the windows. I paused at one of them and stared at the moon, then continued on my way to be caught in a head on collision that I hadn't seen coming, which, if you remember, is rather big for me. I gave the young man of about twenty five the evil eye, raised my chin, and started walking haughtily away, when he tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned. Foolishly.

"I knew I hadn't met you before! You aren't a servant…" he seemed to be going over a checklist in his mind. "Oh yes! You must be Sarah of Covington! No? Hmm..." He rattled off a list of other names, trying my patience a great deal. I stared at him desperately, trying to put my name in his mind.

I must have been succeeding, because all of a sudden an unknown force pushed me back, softly, but firmly. Before I even recuperated, my mouth was putting words into itself. "What was that… oh… gosh…." I felt rather dizzy. "Just please, get rid of it… It is making me sick," I moaned.

Much more sharply, the idiot said, "What is?" he looked at the sky, then looked back at me. "Is it better?"

Though still dizzy, I had reclaimed my wits. "Nevermind. Goodbye." I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my shoulder, and I instinctively took the longest of the daggers from my waist.

Wary of my blade, he cautiously asked, "But I still don't know your name?"

"There can only be so many on the list."

"True. Five hundred more."

"Yeah right, but if there are, start narrowing them down. I don't know your name."

"Sir John Griffen."

"Richard Lamont thinks highly of you, though personally, you are – or were – a moron. No hard feelings."

"So you didn't know I had an intelligence illusion on… wait. First first. Your name?"

"Will you leave me alone?"

"Maybe."

"You'd better. Gwendolyn Kereth Tonn."

"My mom thinks highly of you," he replied, in turn. "As does Richard, Lance is scared, but he's an imbecile, and… well, I haven't actually had time to read your resume," M. Griffen smiled what could have been interpreted as a charming smile. By other people. Me not among them.

"So you didn't hear about Spiristor or my illusion yet?" I inquired, sneakily, sheathing my dagger. I haven't gotten many odd looks.

"No." John Griffen turned, and exclaimed. "Richard!"

Yup, the person I'd last like to see, M. Richard Lamont. Fortunately, though, he did give Spiristor, my crossbow, and my three daggers odd looks. Very satisfying. Not wanting to be outdone, I nodded my head to him in acknowledgement, and added, "they're poison tipped, too. I'm serious this time." My smile was rather disconcerting.

John Griffen twisted to me and asked, "You've met?" and he looked back and forth rather quickly and confusedly.

M. Lamont smiled sweetly, "Yes, we've met." I smiled. If he didn't add under which circumstances, I would. I saw him nod slightly at me, and then harder. I inclined my head to acknowledge my new informant.

He didn't. "Yes we've met. Very pleasant meeting, wasn't it, Sir Lamont? You at the opposite end of my sword, your weapon on the ground, you claiming you won, but surely, any lady should have a handicap allowance, shouldn't she?" He writhed, and John became even more obfuscated.

"Sorry?"

"I thought she was her servant, but half way through a fencing battle with her, I saw the outlines of an illusion. Couldn't see who it was though."

""Really?" Then M. Griffen looked at me and told me that he'd like to try my swordsmanship sometime, as I was rather good if I could beat Richard and this and that. Then I became the ultimately formal and polite person, and excused myself to my original destination, the buffet.

Mme Griffen found me and insisted that I meet her son instead of 'pigging out.' I told her that I already had, and she most malignantly (though she was unaware of it) insisted that I dance with her idiot son, and went off to fetch him. Stuffing the last of the carrots I had been eating into my mouth, I scrammed to find Maria, and quickly did; she was lounging in a room (massive room, actually) that had all sorts of portraits on the walls. Plaques below them showed that they were the masters of the Griffen household.

Maria, noting I was nearby, said, "They're all so… austere."

"Yeah. Look, we need to leave."

"Why?" I wish she would've just listened then.

"Madame is expecting me to dance with her son, who previously knocked me down, and I was… okay, not _forced_, but I almost took a dagger to him, and that doesn't go well with most people…."

"I'd like to see you dance. You know, you'd be pretty good if you'd practice. After all, isn't fighting more difficult than dancing? And the Underworld trials, the Ruler was always the ultimate challenge to be part of a battalion, and I always thought the trials were really cool. Of course, I didn't know it was you, though," she stated thoughtfully and calmly.

"Fine, see me through to the bitter end, fowl," I replied. "But thank you for the flattery. I'll be sure to have the trials here for the amusement of the people," I grinned, still not planning to dance at all.

I headed towards the servant's door to the kitchens, and was blocked deftly by M. Griffen. "My mother requests that I dance with you."

Then I had a flash of brilliance. "Fighting is dancing, is it not? And I am a good bit better at that… and I'm prepared."

M. Griffen looked thoughtful for a moment. I really wanted to smack him in the face for blocking my exit, but I held strong. "I am a naval commander for the French. I could not fight a… no."

That was it. He was dead. "Just for that, you are going to fight and lose, or die in stubbornity. Take back your comment, and fight. I refuse to dance, you maggot ridden moron, you son of a-"

He raised his eyebrows, but cut in in time to cut short my rough speech. "Fine. Ever hear of sarcasm?"

"I have. I don't appreciate it in that sense though, and I take it that I should warn you. A wrong move could mean your head…. Any day. Not only when I have Spiristor."

"You think I'd let you fight with that sword? Gees, do you think I'm an idiot? It's been enchanted twice… invincible and muscle memory, gosh," he laughed. I stared.

Spiristor has spells on it? I didn't ask for any… it was made newly when I bought it, wasn't it? You have no idea of the turmoil and maelstrom that flew through my head. "What… what?" I finally managed to whisper.

"Sure they're very fine tuned, but considering you bought it, and you have enough magic in you to have put those spells on it…. You didn't know?"

"No."

"How much did you pay for it?"

"Abou- why should I tell you?"

"You still want to fight?"

"Yeah. I could before I had Spiristor. And I truly didn't know those spells were there."

"Okay, how about next week on Saturday then? I'll get Mom to have some other ball, because otherwise she's quite frugal, and that gives you time to do some practicing…" I didn't answer, and he allowed me to pass through the servant's door in a state of shock. Then I went home.

I know this letter is rather inconclusive, but I must end it. Please wait for the next in the saga.

Your thunderstruck friend,

Gwen


	5. Chapter 5: Smirk and Glance

Dear Francisco,

_Dear Francisco,_

I have decided not to practice my swordsmanship this week. At all. Really, I want too… it would be embarrassing to fail after defeating all those people, and I'll still use Spiristor on other occassions, but I want to know how good I am… which requires that I don't practice until next Saturday's ball. I've already gotten the invitation.

On that note, you know how I bought Spiristor for 100 pounds? I've been researching, and I have found out how much it costs to have a sword enchanted with those two spells… muscle memory and invincible. First of all, there is only _one armory in all of Paris that even does those_. Yeah. Hit me hard too. And when I found out how much they cost…

To say the least, I nearly fainted – try, oh, say, _around 7,000 pounds apiece._ How in the world did they get there? I definitely didn't put them on, despite Griffen's nasty remark about how I could've! Who would do that?

But you know I can fight.

Please reassure me.

Anyway, Maria and I left through the front as opposed to the servant's door, and I wasn't stopped on the way. We got in the coach and got home where things got even worse…:

"You absolute imbecile! You make the honorable Tonn family look like a disgrace, you stupid girl!"

Aunt Eloise had been tipped off by someone… probably Lamont. I have to get more of a job description to him somehow, telling him that if he hurts me in any way, his memory is gone. And the worst? He tipped her off about the poison on the tips of my daggers. Guess what? Now I am only allowed to wear Spiristor and a boot dagger to the next dumb balls we've got to go to. Including the one where I fight the dolt. My life. Wonderful?

So, naturally, I actually have a punishment (other than simply wearing a dress and very few weapons to the next fetes we're going to). I – and this is the funny part – have to allow Maria to tag along with me wherever I go. Ha ha. In Eloise's face! Of course, there's something else. There always is. If Maria doesn't go, I've got to ask Steph… death march plays.

With all the time I've had with Maria over the past few days, I have done several things in sync with my ES. I have jinxed quite a few pocket mirrors and watches, misfiring only twice, and I also managed to jinx Maria's bathroom mirror. That was a misfire. I meant to hit her wall, but you know how that works… and Aunt Eloise, even though she can see my growing talent, refuses to get me help organizing it or ruling it. Maybe I can get Mme Griffen to help, but with the way she's been acting lately…

I have asked that Dolt Lamont visit me at the bakery some morning, if he said yes, which I presume he did, considering the fact that he basically nodded to take the job at the Griffen party. I believe he received the message, considering the fact that I set it on his bed – unmade and filthy, though I can only say the same for mine – as it was.

Thus, I found myself in servant's garb, as Lamont wouldn't be fooled by it, at the bakery in the morning with two scrying pocket watches, one for me, temporarily since I failed to jinx my hand.

I was left waiting only a few minutes before he showed up, obviously looking for me out of illusion, so I stood up and acted conspicuously, even though, as you know, it is somewhat against my nature to do so.

Lamont, ever the idiot, looked confused, until I oh so obviously flagged him over to my table.

"I didn't know you'd be like… that," he said, scornfully.

"What'd you expect me to do? Do you know what people would assume if… oh, nevermind. Ask what you will, but don't expect me to answer your every question. It _is _true that you accepted my invitation?" I intimidated him, I believe.

"Yes, I accepted your… 'invitation,'" he replied, hesitantly.

On impulse, I asked, "Are you telling anyone? If you do _anything _even _like _being a double informant, I will knowledge lock you, and you know how many people have gone crazy being knowledge locked?"

He looked rather frightened, I am pleased to report. "N-no, I'm not being double informant… but how many people are in the organization?"

"The Underworld had thousands, but alas, the ES only has…" I shut my eyes, ready to be mocked, "two."

He scoffed. "Two? That's pathetic."

My eyes flashed open, naturally defensive of myself, and I glared, "The Underworld started off as two people as well, but then it became a massive organization where people were paid with knowledge gained by their friends… knowledge that could have saved their lives. The Underworld saved at least two dozen people, and depending on who they were, some were saved multiple times, so don't you dare mock my skills." The passion and anger and my voice shoved him back a bit.

"Okay… but prove it that you're from the Underworld… that was a famous tale, a rumor-"

"Meant to bloody well warn everyone who gets in an agents way!"

"Prove yourself."

"If you are up to anything, then beware…"

"I'm not."

So I suppose you can guess what I did. You know how there are the five fields of Underworld commands for different levels? For gossips, there was the unspeakable word that I jinxed so that no one other than an agent could say, for the ones who dropped by with any news they could gather but still had higher priorities, there was the tune and the word (all of them piled up on each other), then for low field agents, somewhat in training, there was the special flick of the hand that showed the special logo for the Underworld in green? The Battalions of trained assassins and thieves were even more special, with their swords, which had the special red glazing of everything if you did a special flourish on a certain move. Then the council had… the weird pressuring that came from the heart of one of those on it. The Council of Seven.

"Do you even know any of the Underworld signals?" I asked, after thinking over which of them I should use.

"I've only ever heard the word once, and I can't say that."

"Duh, I ruled it… only the Council knows who all were in the racket…" I trailed off. "Alisiyzharagh." I said, then laughed. I sounded like a complete lunatic… the reason why we chose that word over others.

He stared, as opposed to laughing. "That… that… that's it."

"I know." I replied, and as he questioned me, I gave all the correct answers, omitting them where I needed to. Wrapping up, I stated, "Here's a watch. Contact me with it. You know, this will be a learning experience for you… if we gain enough members, you could possibly lead a battalion or be on the council… it's worth getting on this early."

Standing up, he glanced at me. "I hope so."

So then I ran home like some lost dog who's just been thrashed, not that I had been, but I would be if Aunt Eloise found out that I was gone. And she had. In fact, Francisco, she was in a fit! Aunt Eloise! In a fit! I wanted to laugh, but managed to remember that I was in servant's garb… (she hadn't recognized or seen me yet)

Once I changed out, she tackled me upon seeing me 'fanning myself' in the parlor. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, why, I've been sitting here, why do you ask?" I inquired, coyly.

"Maria and Steph have had no direction from you, like they should have, though now I am beginning to doubt my wisdom on that, and we have a luncheon at the Covingtons. Hurry, we have little time, and you, being the eldest, simply must help Steph and Maria," she growled, not adding that as opposed to theirs, my reputation was not at stake.

So I helped them – specifically Steph – get dressed for lunch, which I think is wrong. My belief is that dinner is formal or casual, but breakfast and lunch? No. They are not. That makes a helpless and hopeless air of excitement that just… is… just… sort of wrong. MY time. Not that you care about my beliefs, I can only try to make you care…

So, naturally, I had to get dressed in three minutes, which I also find wrong, but I won't give you the bloody gory details on that, considering how bored you'd be. I wore my traditional green skirt with the plain white shear over it (No time for a dress, so ha ha, Aunt Eloise).

But then, Aunt Eloise made me go back up and change, her exact words being, "I don't care if we're late, you are not going to disgrace this family, go put on your blue skirt, _now_."

I don't usually do what she says, but she was so forceful, it was frightening, and in shock, I went and changed into the _blue _skirt with a white shear over it. I had Steph buy me three in each color, so as not to be 'grungy.' Yellow, red, blue, and green. Naturally, though, I didn't plan on wearing any of the others.

In the coach, Eloise had to put my hair up, which I promptly undid when she wasn't looking.

So she put it back up again, and again, until she was rather exasperated.

But I still wonder: why is she going to such pains with my dress? She's never worried before, and now… ugh.

When we got to the Covingtons' home, which, I might add, was quite a few degrees smaller than the Lamont home, though only a couple degrees smaller than ours, we were ushered into a dining area where many young ladies such as Steph and many idiots (or so I presumed they were) like the Lamonts, both Lance and Richard, were gathered round a long rectangular table, as most tables are wont to be. I unashamedly dragged an empty chair away from the main table, like I do a great deal of the time at such events, when Aunt Eloise stopped me.

"What're you doing?" she loudly whispered.

"Being antisocial. I'm already condemned, so leave me alone."

"No. You are sitting at the main table."

I ignored her, and dragged my chair even further into the corner. I could easily keep her away with my strength, and she wouldn't want to create a scene anyway. Ah, the lovely smell of power. I touched Spiristor, which, as usual, was faithfully at my side. Aunt Eloise left to go to the main table, when all of a sudden, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye.

I turned, and there was nothing there. Then it happened again.

"Uh… hello?" I waited to see if I got an answer, then the flickering happened again, and I turned nearly knocking the table over.

There is one way to deal with invisible enemies, and you taught it to me.

I drew Spiristor and flailed it around like mad, and I flailed it towards the flickering whenever I saw it, and finally, I was rewarded with an 'owch!' (No one in the hall gave me weird looks for flailing around my sword… I doubt they noticed, even. Except for one girl… about thirteen, I'd guess. Doesn't matter.)

"Please… you could kill someone!"

"Yes, I could, and I have every right to kill some sneak lurking around my table invisibly, don't I?"

"Well… no, you don't."

I lifted my sword. "You're still invisible, you know."

"Duh."

"Is that anyway to speak to a distinguished lady of the higher order, you foul creep?" I lifted my chin haughtily.

"I could have you beheaded for that, you know." He winked into view, a blond haired, green eyed, jerk, with an ornamental weapon by his side. Pah, stupid thing. Who was the imbecile anyway? On second thought – it is a slight bit prejudiced of me to label imbeciles prior to having met them. In any case:

"Who are you, and if you don't tell me…" I raised Spiristor menacingly.

"Umm… have you been living in the dark ages? People don't flail around weapons or threaten them anymore…"

"No, I am not in the dark ages, even if I do find my sword a good way to discipline people, but who are you, you freak who doesn't know a sword from a bow?"

"Umm… I thought it was sort of obvious… you know how the Prince of England sort of… took the throne last year?" the dolt rushed on, giving me no time to reply, "well, er, there was nothing for me to do, unless he dies, so I decided to escape to France, and-"

"Who are you?" I put that weird power behind my words, mimicking the spell M. Lamont did – tried – on me.

"Second son of-"

"Skip all the formalities."

"Gregor, second in command to the king."

"That's good to know. Now, please leave me alone."

"Seriously, though, you ought to stop flailing that sword around. You could hurt someone, and it's not like you know how to use it. I'd sell it for a good profit, and you could buy a few more dresses with it…" he glanced down at it, though slightly intrigued that I didn't care that he was the second in line to the throne.

"That is an insult." I stated, ever so quietly and calmly. "I sold at least five of those ugly dresses to buy this, and now you ask that I turn it in to get them back? And did you not notice that I hit you with the flat of the blade, or it would have hurt much more? I still have time to make it hurt… try me."

Then he went white, not staring at me, but at my sword.

"Oh… my…"

Intrigued, I glanced at him and back to Spiristor, wondering. "What?"

"I'll- I'll l-leave, y-y-you alone, M-miss, I-I'm sure you'd d-d w-w-wonderfully in… l-et m-me leave…"

"What?" I asked, but the Gregor jerk was already gone.

I really just have to wonder what all that meant. What did the second in command (now to be referred to as Sic, as Second In Command, which I find ironic) mean by he 'escaped?' And what about Spiristor made him so edgy? There is more to this than I think, I am certain…

Meanwhile, though, while I know absolutely nothing, tomorrow is Saturday, and I am anticipating the duel with M. Griffen. Even if I lose, which I doubt, it will be a learning experience… ha ha. At least I am still smug.

In short, the fight was… interesting.

Even more interesting, though, was the way that we started… I am very picky, and I acted my nature. There was the ball, and I got in the same way with Maria, but instead of going our separate ways, we stuck together, and tried to find John Griffen. Not the buffet, unfortunately. Spiristor was by my side, though only for decoration, as John Griffen said I couldn't use it.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and even though I was anticipating finding M. Griffen, I smiled broadly, catching his hand and twisting it into an s-lock. He writhed out of it, so I grabbed his other hand and put a second lock on it. (This is my new method of anger management, which I assure you, I am in need of.)

"Get off of my hand, you foul-" He started, then seemed to consider that Maria was standing right beside me, and if she had the training I had (not as much, but yes) then he could be begging for mercy in a few seconds.

"So, finally realized who you're talking to?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes. And how the he- how are you going to fight in a skirt?"

"Thank you for controlling your language, and if you don't…" I hesitated, bit my lip, and smiled, "burn in hell. I have had plenty of practice fighting in not only a skirt, a dress, to answer your original question."

"With that sword. I'm not letting you use it," M. Griffen laughed at my minor joke. Did I mention how much I hate people who laugh at something that isn't actually that funny?

"You made that clear last time. I brought _Spiristor_ because I plan on fighting an ambush with it, as opposed to some play sword you make me fight you with."

He frowned scowled at me. "The Griffen Manor has one of the finest armories around, I'll have you know," he stated, and I motioned to Maria to make a threatening gesture. Not noticing, he said, "Now, follow at a good distance before you dig yourself a deeper grave of marsh mud."

I laughed, I admit. He though _I _was digging _my _grave. There is something wrong with that sentence. Really really wrong.

So we followed, and found ourselves in the armory of the Griffen Manor with the idiot who probably didn't know how to handle a weapon.

"Pick a sword. For you, I'd say from this selection." He held out his hand, pointing to a section with six mealy looking swords. I humored him, and took one in my hand.

_It was scrap metal, I promise you._

Knowing me, you know that I didn't blow up straight away. No, I stared at the piece of scrap metal for a few seconds before I totally lost it.

"Are you trying to get me killed?" I was quiet, and in the quiet lay the menacing tone. It was actually somewhat difficult to suppress the urge to scream in his face. "Okay, Griffen, let's have a physics lesson here. Have you ever heard of physics? Yes? Well then you may remember this lovely little equation, Fma, if I recall correctly. It says that force – that's force, got that? – is a function of _acceleration and mass._ You getting this? Now – "

"I don't see – "

"Listen." I glared. "Acceleration. That's me. But how am I supposed to create force _without mass?_" My voice took on an edge.

At this point, John Griffen was becoming flustered, but I kept going. "This sword weighs nothing."

"Um… so I assume you would like to try a different one?"

"That would be simply lovely." The sarcasm dripped off my tongue. Maria was grinning, like she was watching a high quality entertainment play. I suppose it would be entertaining, though. "And let _me_ pick out my sword. You think I'm some girl – and I am, a girl that is, - who can't save her self! I am no damsel in distress, Monsieur Griffen." With that, I lifted my hand, and slapped him hard across the face, leaving a hand mark. That was fun, though some of it was, to be sure, theatrics.

Griffen just stood there, stunned. So I let him stand there. Better sword choice for me.

I tested out 89 of the swords there – about 150, I'd say – before I found one that was suitable at all. Nothing like Spiristor. It weighed less, and it was a bit off balance, but I doubted seriously that I'd find anything better. John Griffen finally recovered enough so that I could aim another verbal blow.

"Who is your blacksmith? I would have sent over 80 of these swords back, asking for a full refund. They're simply… horrible."

John's mouth was still hanging open slightly when he found it in him to reply. "But these were top quality at-"

"These are top quality no where. And how much did you pay for them?"

"About two hundred pounds a piece."

"That's a rip off."

"You never told me how much yours cost."

"Alright, then, I suppose you have deserved the right to take a few passes with Spiristor." I handed him the weapon carefully by the hilt. He took it, and his eyes widened. That was the accustomed reaction when people held my pride and joy…

He passed it back. "Guess how much."

"Seven thousand bloody pounds. That sword…" he gazed at it in admiration, and I couldn't help being smug.

"No."

"Eight thousand?" he looked up to my face.

"No. You'd never guess."

"Twenty thousand?"

"No, no, no. No. I wouldn't have settled for a lesser sword, but I wouldn't have paid that much either. Now, are we going to fight or not?"

"Oh… uh… yeah…" he was lost in thought. "There's an alcove of trees outside."

I found my way into the alcove, Maria by my side, grinning. She knew I had frightened him.

"Cross swords – wait, no, bow, then cross your swords."

I laughed at Maria's slight mistake.

"Die." I muttered under my breath, and the battle began, two twisting people, turning themselves sideways for a lesser target. Accidentally, I overswung – cusre this lightweight stick! – and hit M. Griffen's leg, making a slight scratch that drew blood.

"Oh, sorry," I said, laughing. I had plenty of breath to do so, unlike my opponent, who was sweating heavily, I could tell despite the dim light, and who's breath was in heaving gasps. That did not mean, however, that he was close to quitting, and I could slack off.

With a simple cross pattern, intermingled with simple undercuts, I seemed to be winning.

Until the dolt decided that he had excess energy, and decided to parry the undercuts and strike upward from there. I had had plenty of practice blocking this sort of thing, but it was irritating. I just wanted to end the fight. The point of a fight is to end the fight… the point of a fight is to end the fight…

I opened my mind then, you know what I mean. Before, it had been a simple formation, meant only to hold off for a time. With my opened mind, I searched for spaces, cutting when I wouldn't get out of a situation, and striking or defending the next second. My body is one with my mind at times like that, working together in perfect harmony. It would be hard for me not to. I've had too many thrashings and was forced to teach myself this art… no one thought I'd ever be any good. So I found the state of harmony that was dedicated to subconsciously ruling. The state of harmony that weighed everything so perfectly, and balanced everything with my intentions… You remember the looks on Joel, Horace, and Daniel's faces when I thrashed them all, because they were 'teaching' me by going up all against me at once? And then I started the Underground… But I do miss Joel. He was the nicest of all of them. But he moved away when we were fourteen… I didn't like him _that _much.

It took only a few minutes in the state of pure harmony to knock the sword out of M. Griffen's hand, and then I came back to find him staring at me, intrigued. I was really thinking about how difficult it had been to get in and out of the state, and how I needed to practice.

The battalion fighters… I taught them the 'state.' I'll get them to practice with me… Then John spoke, bringing me back to reality.

"What were you doing?"

"Whaddaya mean?" I asked, looking around groggily.

"I mean it's almost pitch black, and you were executing moves that only professionals know, and a few that they don't, if I can be known as a professional, and you were executing them like you actually knew where I was."

"I did, though-"

"How? It's pitch black, and I know you didn't use magic, so don't pretend… and you really need to learn not to overswing…"

"Seeing as I defeated you, I think that I should be telling you what you need to work on," I stated in my traditional cocky manner. "And I wouldn't have overswung if I hadn't used that."

"Alright, then… I'd like to know what I did wrong. Personally, though, I don't think I did anything wrong, except-"

"Here's the main thing. Don't try to show off or be embarrassed. If I want a heavy sword, that doesn't mean you need one too. Don't think I didn't notice how you were tired after the first few minutes, and a professional wouldn't be. Got that? You're too proud for your own good."

"I could say the same about you," he replied.

I was about to counter with a 'just saying' but Maria cut in and said, "It's time to go. We need to leave. A-E will be 'worrying' about us."

I rolled my eyes, and motioned for Maria to come with me, and in the distance I heard John Griffen shout, "Who is A-E? And how much was your bloody sword?"

Sorry, but I must write another letter containing what I did next, for I know how boring it is to read every event all crammed together when it really ought to be told right. I hope you are doing well.

Wearing a sign saying 'must practice,'

Gwen


	6. Chapter 6: I

_Dear Francisco,_

I just started thinking… Aunt Eloise is acting really odd, as if she hadn't given up on me… like there's someone – some jerky guy – she wants me to meet… First it was the skirt – blue instead of green, and then she was trying to make me sit at the main table… be social… during that lunch at the Covingtons. And then, though this isn't really related, there was that Sic, Gregor, who was so scared – or so it appeared – of Spiristor.

Being the up front person I am, and you know it, I had to ask her why.

Proving my downfall.

I shouldn't have asked outright, I should have put Maria on the trail. My separation from the Underworld and its consequences are becoming… obvious, at the very least. Write back, please, telling me I am not losing my mind. I need reassurance.

Instead of my walk, I decided to go straight to Eloise. "Excuse me, Aunt," I respectfully – for once – requested.

"Well, look who's up early for once, what do you want, Gwendolyn?" (She thinks I'm a late sleeper because I go on the walks.)

Resuming my natural sloppy stance and posture, I asked the question. "Why are you trying to make me… different? Why are you trying to make me social? You know it's a lost cause," I stated, naively looking down at her. (I'm only an inch or two taller, but I still am!) Looking back on that incident, I cringe. How could I be so stupid?

Aunt Eloise broke into a smile. Never a good omen. "But Gwendolyn! Here, you do have a chance a social life! I'll spoil the surprise no further… you wouldn't… nevermind," she grinned, knowing that I was in pain, probably unaware of exactly how much.

Then, I loaded my voice with venom. "What?"

Aunt Eloise just skipped down the hallway. _Skipped. Aunt Eloise bloody SKIPPED!!!_ I took no notice. I was seriously scared. Anything that could make the hag that bloody happy couldn't be good.

First of all, there would be restrictions. Then it would morph into other things.

I wish disgracing the family didn't matter so much.

After moping for an hour or two, wondering what was in store for me, I decided to go to the Griffen's, and NOT to see that bloody idiot John… to see Madame. Even with the way she's acting, she could be a good informant, and a teacher… my magic is thoroughly out of hand now.

Let me digress a bit to explain.

Yesterday morning, I woke up and decided to practice a bit with my horn, and to do that, I'd have to muffle it a great deal, or do a silencing. Naturally, I chose the silencing, because that would be more interesting and give me more to do. So I took out the all-purpose book of practical spells that I don't use very often (one of my three books of magic that have not been confiscated by AE yet… partially because she doesn't know I have them. But they don't have good stuff like the tracers, the thing that M. Lamont tried to use on me. It's all VERY, or should I say TOO practical). I did the small gesture for the muffling, and… disaster struck. I put myself in more social ruin than I could have on my own, I believe. We had a luncheon at the Smitheson's today, and it went dreadfully. Score for me.

Instead of managing to muffle my horn, as you have probably predicted I hadn't done, I managed to _make myself hard of hearing._ Yeah. Horrible, I know. The inflicted social ruin was welcome, but not being able to hear… agony. Luckily it only lasted a day, but…

Life.

Also to digress, the Smitheson's lunch: I went, walking with Maria, who knew of my plight, and would try to get me out of too socially ruining situations. Thank a lord if there is one for Maria.

The luncheon started out fine, until people began to ask my opinion on things. You never realize it, but if you can't hear and you aren't used to it, you speak unusually loudly. And, well, yeah. You get what I'm saying.

I managed to embarrass quite a few people around me by shouting out a great deal of private political ideals of mine. Pain and humiliation.

When we finally left – I wish to no longer speak of that horrible two hours – I was fighting myself to contain emotions. Luckily no one I really knew was there, with the exception of Sarah Covington, who I didn't even know really well.

So I went to Madame Griffen for help.

Clad in a dark cloak that covered me to the point of unrecognition, I slipped in a servants door, and asked to speak to the Lady of the house. Though they were obviously, and reasonably, confused, they showed me to her door, and I knocked twice.

The door opened, and the happy Mme Griffen started chattering loudly.

"How nice! A surprise! And who do I have the pleasure of entertaining? Miss Covington? Madame Bella Yedsworth? Tam-"

I lifted the hood from my face, and her smile disappeared.

"Come in," she stated, and I noticed bags under her eyes, and more signs of over-fatigue. What could have reduced the once intelligent, interesting, lively woman to this?

"I-I would like it…"

"Go on, though I know at least one purpose for which you came here."

I stared, shocked. How could she know either of the purposes? Wait – word had probably spread of my shouting across the table at the Smitheson's, and that wouldn't be a shock at all. But she read in my face.

"No, I don't know the other. I know about the Sector and the Underground…" she stared into my blue eyes with her brown ones. "That's part of why I've been avoiding you," she shifted her gaze to the floor.

"Why?" I caught my voice.

"My son… John… you are a perfectly nice person, I assure you, but… he's… he's not just a naval commander."

"No…" I said, hoping my presumptions weren't true. If they were, my life… my life could be gone. Dead. Endangered. I could be on the run, a jail bird. Or at least, if my presumptions were true, I'd be running away from becoming a jail bird.

"He's also a spy, and he's on th-the Underground case. Whats more," she continued, her words like a flood, knowing they'd stop if she made a single hesitation, "he's trying to find the old ruler of the Underground – yes, he knows that the key Underground operative has left them. And if he finds that someone," she stared into my eyes, icily, but I knew her to be telling the truth, "the French are going to force them into service for the government…"

I couldn't speak. The truth was too dreadful for me to think about, and I doubt these words convey my true feelings of dismay, anger, and regret. I finally found voice enough to ask, "and why have you been avoiding me?"

The answer fell upon my ears. "Because," she stated, sorry in her brown eyes, "because I told him. But I'm trying to keep him from-"

Angrily, I pushed her away from the door, and walked through it. "I don't care." I glared. I don't care…

Ignoring my other cause for visiting the Griffens – how could I trust her to teach me magic if she turned me in to the French government? – I fled, a knot in my stomach twisting and writhing painfully.

What would be the easiest method to deal with what I had just learned, without harming anyone… _but myself._ A smile came over my lips. A tranquility stole over my body. I had information that was useful to them. I was the only one who was not thought to be knowledge locked. But that didn't matter.

Sickness. Even if I didn't die, it would put me on a sort of probation, and I could make myself sick at the upcoming Griffen ball – who knows why they had so many – to make a tiny clue to those who continued to watch me from the Underworld that all was not well. The Griffens wished to do me in.

I hatched my plot, and walked home, under the billowing, disfiguring cloak, wondering all that John Griffen, now the Enemy, knew. Not that he had ever been the Friend… he just hadn't been the enemy.

And, naively having subconsciously expected that this would be the end of the bad news for today, walked into a second trap, much more frivolous than the first.

"Young lady, considering that you have actual prospects-" Aunt Eloise began, but I cut in.

"You never actually told me how I had prospects," I made note, hoping that her so called prospects would be tiny. If they weren't, you would know what that meant… Horrors.

"And I won't now either. You will know, eventually. But, you need at least one dress towards a new wardrobe," I could almost see her smiling malignantly behind her calm features, "one with a corset, preferably," preferably was said in a tone that said 'I-don't-care-what-you-think' "and in the fashionable modern style. It has been brought to my attention that all the gowns that you have – mostly skirts – are all quite old fashioned and will not do."

I groaned innerly. Not another whip, please… But I succumbed, not having gotten over the betrayal of Mme Griffen yet.

AE took out the horse drawn carriage and gave an order to the footman to go to some infernal by nature and infernally named dress shop. Instead of groaning and begging, like I should have been, I was quiet. Why hadn't John Griffen turned me in yet? What sign was he waiting for? I sighed, and my eyes became teary, but I banished the tears. There was no time for weakness.

My life had gone from interestingly wonderful, dashed down to dreadful in seconds. Seconds. Seconds. But the tiny beacon of hope still shone, for Mme Griffen at least sympathized with me enough to give warning.

"We're here." AE informed me, and I did not protest being led like a dog into the blithe store, and made no arguments about anything said, and thus ended up with the nicest, most expensive dress I will wear very few times in my life. At least, it's nice by Aunt Eloise's standards, but her standards seemed to have improved.

No, I couldn't breathe. No problem. Maybe I'd drop dead, solving all my other life's problems as well.

No, it was not pink. Score! Or it would have been…

Yes, it was dark blue with fields of black lace gracing the tresses.

No, you could not see my feet, but it wasn't like a super wide ball gown. It tapered, as did the sleeves.

Yes, I nearly died while I was being fitted for it.

Dismally, we traipsed back home in the carriage, and I did not stop even once to run my hand through Sorrel's or Artemis's manes. I walked around like this for two days, and no one but Maria noticed. And I didn't dare tell her why. I didn't smile for two days. I didn't talk or eat (mostly - I cheated once) for two days. I slouched for two days.

And I didn't care.

And the day of the Griffen ball dawned. Recently, I had taken to laying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling for hours upon end, giving A. Eloise even more of a reason to call me a lazy prig. I didn't care. Today, I was going to get sick. I didn't really realize that in this state of depression, I actually was already sick… really, truly sick. But the prospect of flaunting my bravery – and possibly ignorance – at the Griffens overwhelmed my anger and hopelessness for a time, so that when we finally left, I was half back to normal, but no one had noticed my depression anyway, so it's not like that made a difference. I wore the new dress, and possibly looked somewhat presentable, except to those who noticed my state of mind. I had trouble breathing as well.

And I did not wear Spiristor, which was a key mistake, even if I didn't realize it then.

My eyelids drooping, I used the front entrance, and went to the side of the door of the Griffen mansion immediately, not noticing the many new eyes staring at me. I didn't care – my life was a sort of wreck, unless I could make that deal.

But now it was important to look vivacious, and I did my best… but my best didn't cut it. Someone – the someone who I wished not to notice – had noticed.

It was none other than the stupid, evil, betraying, backstabbing, hypocritical git, M. John Griffen.

And I had the terrible misfortune of having met him the second I passed through the door to a painting gallery.

Not wanting to delay my pain any further, I immediately approached him.

"So, Monsieur Griffen," I chose my words with care, and it was not difficult since I had time to think because I was gasping for air between each word. My tone was, however, unusually quiet, and my eyelids, despite my attempts, were drooping. My eyes were probably clouded and dull.

"Yes, Mademoiselle Tonn? And feel free to call me John," he smiled politely in my direction.

"Well, _Monsieur Griffen,_" I continued, placing emphasis on the Monsieur Griffen. He looked stung by my comment, though for a reason I could not comprehend. "I would like to offer a trade." I wheezed, not bothering to ask him to pardon my breathing. How do ladies breathe in these bloody airsuckers? And is it really my fault that Aunt Eloise has found the ultimate manner of torture?

"And this trade would be? And, pardon me, milady, but you seem rather unwell, if I do say so myself. Other than the… 'respiratory' problems."

Ugh. The git.

Countering, I said, with pleading eyes, though my physical manner did not change (anyone in the room could see guilt in posture, if not eyes), "Don't turn me in, and – and, what do you want?" I saw the look on John Griffen's face change instantly to a complex net of emotions I couldn't unravel if I'd wanted to.

I was begging, or at least, really close to it. I could take measures if I wasn't willing to pay the price – and I probably wouldn't be able to – but I didn't want to have to take those measures. Ironically, they were illegal.

A cloud passed over his gaze.

"How do you know about that?"

"Umm… let's see… I run one of the top espionage services in all of Europe. Still wondering?" my spirit was beginning to come back, very little.

I felt his gaze turn from my face to my hip, where Spiristor usually sat. But it was empty.

"But you didn't learn from the Underground, did you?"

"No, I didn't. I learned from your mother, who isn't such a hypocri- oh, sorry," I muttered.

"Why did she tell you?"

"So she wouldn't have the weight of a tortured soul on her conscience? Come on, name your price. It's not like the Underground ever did anything really illegal, and it operates in London… not France."

"I know. But why shouldn't I turn you in?"

"Fine. Go ahead. But I have resources."

"Mind telling me who they are?"

"Not happening. If that's your price, rot in hell," I made a move to walk off, but John Griffen stopped me, grabbing my arm.

"Your really very stres- angered about this, aren't you?"Another glance made its way to my empty side.

And then I blew up. I was living my life in misery for three whole days, and the jerk couldn't understand that enough to at least offer a bit of sympathy. Sure, he was the enemy, but I had wasted days worrying, which was my fault, sure, but if I had the enemy's word, I would have been fine. And if Mme Griffen hadn't ratted on me, then I'd be great… "Of course I'm angry!-"

"Maybe we should take this outside…" he started steering me to the nearest door, expecting me to protest and resist, but I couldn't. No strength. I just walked along meekly, like a _dog_. My life really needed to get back in order.

A surprised glance met me, my eyes cast towards the ground.

"I think I have a right to be angry, too! We never did anything truly illegal, not really, and we paid everyone right, and you're sitting there threatening me with 'oo, I'm gonna turn you in' when you can, but for no reason. I-"

"Miss Tonn, you do not know of your situation," he replied, staring at me with a face that hid all of his emotions. "Are you aware that you have every ability to topple both the English and French thrones, you are more well known by title than the King of England's second in command brother-"

"Gregor?"

"And you have power to intimidate and use services beyond belief? That is, if you can still reclaim the Underground," he looked away as I glared holes through whatever I saw. "And the French government has one of the poorer espionage systems. They want your services-"

"And are willing to kill me to get them. Won't work."

"No, they would not kill you, and they know it wouldn't work. Do you know how hard it would be to not turn you in?"

"Yes, no, sort of. And I don't care. You turn me in, I a) take poison, b) disperse any of my services. And that's a threat."

I was feeling better now. I was in my own territory – I didn't have to beg or use bribes. I had all the threats I needed. But that couldn't even raise my depleted physical strength. You try not eating for days! (I know; I'm wallowing in my self pity - no need to sympathize with me; I'm just turning my otherwise pointless and insignificant life into a drama.)

"Miss Tonn, it is truly against my best instincts, but I shall make a deal with you, if you wish it to be so…"

I was astonished, and apparently my astonishment showed on my face.

"I know, my job, yes… it is a somewhat difficult situation, I quite agree. But," he furrowed his brows, "you wouldn't be totally off the hook. I'd need to be able to relay information to the French government on how to run a spy system of any worth… they didn't want to be dependant on the Underground, even if they did find it."

"You've thought this out, haven't you?" I asked, but my heart was elated, and I could feel relief flooding through my veins. My face betrayed me, as it does so often.

"Yes, but there's other stuff… for myself."

The relief washed itself away, and an emptiness not unlike what I'd been feeling the last few days filled me.

"I'll not make you get rid of the Underground or whatever, but I request that you give us some valuable information, and as for myself…" He tapped his chin, in an obvious thinking gesture.

"Please…"

"You're begging, and I think I like that…"

"Shut up. I refuse to beg. No. If that's your deal, once again, you can forget it."

"Considering how it might be a trial for you to spend time with me at all, I propose that every other day, for an hour, you teach me to use the sword-"

I snorted. "You definitely need to be taught. Gees, Almiara could do better."

He glared politely, though how, I have no clue. "and I teach you…"

"Magic. I think you know it."

"But you don't? And who is Almiara? I've heard that name before…"

"I agree to your deal, and no I don't know magic, and I need to. Did you hear about the Smitheson's?"

"Ah, yes, I did, though I wasn't sure…" an amused smile sat in his eyes.

"Oh, but there's another part to the deal…"

"What?" my voice sounded nasty, even to me.

"No 'Monsieur.' I know you'd say no if I asked you to call me John, so I won't even try."

"Good idea. Deal. And as for Almiara, she's my best friend. She moved to Prague when I moved, though. She sucked at swordsmanship…"

"What was her last name? I've heard the name Almiara, I'm certain…"

I quickly made up a last name – I didn't want people to know you were the famous archer, and criminal. You probably realize why. "Almiara Finnet." And plus, you pretty much go by Francisco now, which simplifies a lot.

I then quickly ran away to avoid more questioning… or I tried. After a few steps, I almost fell, gasping for air – the corset didn't help my lack of energy –and muttered, "Stupid dress could kill a saint."

"I take it," stated Monsieur Griffen, "that you cannot fight in a corset?"

"Shut up."

"And may I give you my compliments… you look wonderful tonight."

"Yeah right. I always look like a pig stuffed in a pillowcase. Don't try to make me feel better," I knew I didn't – I just liked saying so.

"Let me help you to your carriage – I take it that in your state, you do not wish to dance?"

"You could blackmail me, you know."

"But I won't."

And thus I left the stupid Griffen party with much higher spirits than I went with, and a new start on life, to a degree. Also, I knew that I was safe… and if I wasn't, I could make certain people pay… ha ha ha.

And it just so happened, that I could make them pay in illegal ways.

After a lapse of depression, an incredibly elated person, with a new life, possibly of happiness, and a person who writes incredibly long closers,

As Someone else says,

The ups and the Downs,

Gwen

P.S. Please read a wonderful poem I wrote during my short depressed period. It is really good, even coming from an amateur like me.

* * *

Okay, so the last chapter needed major help. But I like this one - It's so _Gwen. _It embodies her, because she just so... pigheaded. I mean, when I go back and read it, I absolutely feel her pain and sorrow - yet I laugh at her at the same time because she is so obviously sorry for herself. Every single time I read it, I feel like she is just too superficial and fake, but I can't change it because it's her - Gwen just is that way. She'd feel sorry for herself about everything, and of course she overdoes it when she's actually got something to worry about. I mean, seriously, who wouldn't eat for days just because of some strange depression... yet it works for Gwen perfectly.

So yes, this is the author - resurfacing. Once again, I would really appreciate reviews. And I have a CAVEAT!!!

If you take Latin, you know that a Caveat is a sort of warning - except, instead of buyer beware, I'm saying READER BEWARE!!! You want to know how I put out these chapters so fast? I HAD THEM TYPED ALREADY. To be strictly honest, I have four more chaps typed up, but I am not going to update often because I write on this ONLY WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT. Admittedly, the next four chapters will go up fairly soon, based on reader cooperation and etc (I know you hate it anyway - don't lie to me), but after that there are no guarantees.

Also, aimeram (who is awesome) reviewed, indicating something I thought was clear. I thought the plot might be an issue, but based on aimeram's review, it's not. I can't, however, read the other five of your minds (yes, I have five continuing readers - don't laugh at me), so it would be kind of you to review and tell me what you honestly think. However, to get back to my point, it is about Gwen's magic.

I can see how this misconception came to be, and it might not even be a misconception. I haven't really decided. However, Gwen hasn't learned to use her magic anywhere - she has it, and therefore has a gift for using it. Furthermore, WHY she has magic is, though kind of irrelevant, going to be tied in with a much later section of the plot. I just thought I'd clear this up while I could.

So, yeah. C'est moi.

-r-e-v-i-e-w-

That looks nice.


	7. Chapter 7: M Joel Freestep

_Dear Francisco,_

Life has been treating me wonderfully these last few days, I must admit. In celebration that I have a life – as long as the terms are kept – I went out and spent all my savings on… you guessed it, a whip. Not a very ladylike weapon, I assure you.

I originally wanted to save for it, but it was a celebrational moment, and I shall never leave either Spiristor or my whip home ever again. The whip symbolizes my freedom, Spiristor, my ability and independence. Life is good.

The whip, which I have not named, is tightly intertwined black leather, and it came with something in order to attach a multitude of blades to the end, which I will also buy whence I can use the whip. I have, thus, been overly cheerful for the last few days, as my success in bargaining dashed all thoughts of sickness from my mind. It was as if my life had been renewed… with limitations, though.

So I told Maria.

And she gasped.

Seriously, she gasped. I think she expected that I would get my 'minions' in my networks to do my dirty work like that. Nope. I do my own dirty work, and look at what I get for it. Okay, so maybe I get a lot. But still! I've got to teach an unimpressionable person to use a sword! But I do get magic lessons in return…

And I'm going to explain how to use my whip. I've already got a few techniques down, and I am gaining more and more faster as I go. I have a knack. :-). I usually have a knack for weapons.

The grip is fitted to my hand with metal, and I know it is metal straight through, because I ordered it this way specially. I wanted it as heavy as Spiristor, so that I could learn without over or under cutting. But before I get to the technique… there is the sound. It seems so wrong, yet the sound of my whip as it cracks across the air is spectacular. I could listen to it all night and still not get used to it… or tire of it, for that matter.

As for my technique: you know me. There is no way I could have an advantage the normal way. So what do I do? Watch a few people get thrashed, then get thrashed even more thoroughly myself. Then develop my own methods, like repeating evolution, but most of the time I find steps that others… 'missed.' And that becomes the advantage.

Frankly speaking, you have GOT to see a bunch of people duel with whips. It is amazing. They inflict serious damage on each other without getting within eight feet, and really, the longer the whip, the more unruly it is and harder to control… thus the advantage. Of course, combining several techniques could be – _is _your best bet, because a whip isn't of much use in close range fighting. So I'll continue to use both.

After developing a few techniques which you will not want me to explain, I went to get thrashed. This is a very important step in my staircase of learning.

I wish it wasn't.

I requested that one of the better duelists meet me, not telling them who I am, and thrash me. My exact words. The guy's name was Monsieur Freestep, but I thought nothing of it… until I met M. Freestep.

I was wearing my illusions, as that would make my life easier, when I walked up to M. Freestep, a tall black haired, brown eyed guy who looked to be in his late twenties. At his belt was a sword, and in his left hand, a nice whip – a few degrees nicer than mine – was coiled. His arms were crossed, and I walked over, pulling my whip out of my canvas bag.

"You're late."

The words were said with a perfectly serious face, and I did not respond. Too bad if I'm late.

"Why did you expect me to fight you? You aren't well known. I am. You probably stink at this. I don't. You are a servant. I'm not."

The words were venom, but I still didn't respond; I just waited. I wanted to say _but you are fighting me, no?_

"Fine then. Stances." I adopted my developed fighting stance, approximately 15 feet away, and let the rest of my whip fall to the ground, still saying nothing, preparing to both be thrashed (I love that word, if not its meaning) and leave with head held high.

"No," he said, "we warm up first… swords… very different weapons, yet linked very closely with certain bonds."

Okay, I could do this. Still not saying anything, I unsheathed the illusioned Spiristor and took stance. And that was my first mistake… of a sort. If you can call it a mistake…

He frowned, then shook his head as if to clear it of thought, then stepped forward into his stance, which was a great deal less perfect than mine was. Wanting to get the entire ordeal over with, I immediately went into thrashing mode (I love it in that context!) and hit here there, right left, etc.

He blocked only the first five. Better than Griffen, at any rate.

Side swipe, swipe over the head… unnecessary block, quick undercut… I was finished within five minutes. He was good, and I could tell that his sword was balanced nicely too.

In fact, I recognized the sword. An intricately worked hilt of lots of different metal mediums, all worked around to create an almost opaque hand hold, that still fit your hand…

With a vicious twist, I, intrigued, caught the sword as it flew through the air, and examined it a bit more.

The blade was a long triangle. That was the tipoff. There are only so many blades that are such balanced triangles, and I have seen three of them… this being one.

I had picked it out.

For M. Joel Freestep.

Everything fell in place, and I threw his sword back to him, and saluted. Then I ran out the door as fast as I could, forgetting my whip and bag.

Curses.

Still, I didn't go back for them. The chances were that Joel had recognized my style… it is one of a kind, and I don't want to risk that. But why is Joel in Paris? He moved to Sussex a while ago, and… who knows.

I do not want to meet Joel again. I may have said I missed him, but he flogged me, and I don't want that to be public. That would be terrible. My reputation could be at stake.

But I wanted my whip back.

And I wanted it badly.

So an hour after I had come home and stopped hyperventilating, I went back to the studio, and sort of crept in, sneaking around things and the like. Luckily I was in my servant's garb, and I had Spiristor.

"Pardon?" A voice behind me startled me into drawing Spiristor, and I blushed when I saw that it was Monsieur Richard Lamont. I had not run into him enough as of late, Fate had decided, I suppose. Either way it wasn't fair. Evil, evil fate.

"Uh-"

"Oh, milady, pardon me… why are you here?"

"I am NOT milady, I am Mademoiselle Tonn, to you, anyway, and I need to get something that is none of your buisness."

He raised an eyebrow, and said, "Mademoiselle, pardon me, but in a way it is my business. My parents own the studio. Why are you here. Answer."

"Not if I don't want to." _His parents own the studio???_ I really need to find a better place to duel people. Luck is letting me down today, even if it wasn't yesterday.

"For your _parents _information, I was getting something I _accidentally _left here. If you would be so kind as to let me get it, I will be on my way," I stated, the tone in my voice contradicting the sweet look on my face.

"What? Knowing you, Mademoiselle, it is hardly an innocent item."

And then _bad _luck intervened. A shadow loomed behind M. Lamont… a black haired shadow. "Pardon, but I couldn't help but overhear, Monsieur Lamont, but I was fighting this servant earlier. You said Mademoiselle – that is clearly an insult, even to one so low as him," he paused and turned to me, "even if his sword technique is higher than twelve times his station. Boy, I've only seen your type of talent once… I haven't seen it for years… you could be great, with practice."

I cut in before Lamont could say anything. "I don't need practice. That sword's jinxed, the stupid thing. I'm that good without it, though."

Very rude.

Glancing at me oddly, Lamont acted the jerk he is. I wish I could kill him, I really do. "Actually, Mademoiselle here gave me a shock when I finally found out who she was too… join the club."

I gave a look to Lamont that could kill, and then gave him the 'I'll tell you later' look. He didn't get it. I need to work on that.

"I'm sorry," my venom edged voice glared at Lamont, "but I don't know what you are talking about."

He still didn't get it, or was refusing to.

"Monsieur Freestep-"

"Please call me Joel."

"Okay, but please, let me introduce you to Mademoiselle Gwendolyn Tonn." I stared at the floor and made my hand into a visor to shield onlookers. Crud crud crud. Blast blast blast.

I had to say something. "Damn." 

"So, Gwen, you still haven't changed your old habits, have you?"

Not wanting to look up, but wanting more not to show any sign of weakness, I looked up anyway, with anger and death in my eyes. "Hello, Monsieur Freestep. It is not very nice to meet you again, and I trust we will never see each other, and I can make sure of it if you give me a list of events you will be attending. I hope you understand."

"Gwen, I can't." he shook his head in a fake manner. "It is too much fun torturing you."

"Not so fun."

"You know each other?" Lamont asked.

Duh, Lamont, duh. A normal person would have figured that out by now. Not Lamont. "Yeah, not the nicest 'knowing' was it now, Monsieur?" I asked, eyebrow raised.

"The fact that I will never thrash you again ladens my heart with sadness…" he shook his head, and my blood boiled. No doubt that comment was meant to make that happen.

"If either of you tells anyone about that, I will knowledge lock you… and you will wish you were never born," I viciously attacked the tranquil Freestep and Lamont, who immediately said,

"You beat her?"

I cut to the chase. "He beat me once… and it was a three on one battle, against moi, wasn't it, _Joel?_"

At that, he paled. Very few people like to admit they can only beat a girl in a three on one battle, I have noticed. "And of course," I continued, "if the fact that I was beaten doesn't spread, I won't have to spread the fact that it was three on one, now will I? Have we reached an agreement?"

Joel inclined his head, and said, "One last thing. People will think things if we aren't civil."

"Deal." I said, and ran off, grabbing my whip and bag, and running the rest of the way to our home, laughing the entire way.

Not as bad an ending as was possible.

But not as good either.

* * *

Undoubtedly, you are wondering about my lessons with _dear_ John Griffen.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

I started teaching him how to use a sword, and I'm using Spiristor so that his ego won't bloat. Unfortunately, though, his ego has gotten in the way of everything so far. For example:

"We need to find you a sword," I said this with as little emotion as possible, but my contempt for the present armory was inevitable. You should have seen him waving around the scrap metal. "And before we even do that, we need to unteach you everything, and you need to get stronger."

"I am strong. And I have a sword."

"You have a piece of scrap metal that was cast off when my sword was made, and you are a weakling. Could you accurately wield 3 even pounds for a few hours? No? I thought not." So maybe I did go a bit over the edge. So sue me.

"I'm good. Just not as good as you. Can't you understand that?" He asked me the question, and I found it very difficult to explain that to get to the next level you needed to start all over again. Lots of people have problems with that, I've noticed. M. Griffen just had more of a problem than others… So I gave him a little tantrum

"Get your damn ego out of the way, Griffen, or I'll get it out of the way for you."

He shut up, and was actually a better listener, bringing tears of joy to my eyes… or should I say, tears of despairing pain and slowness.

He was slow. I could have cut him down 22 times between every move. I counted. Unfortunately, everyone starts off like this… pathetic and unable to save themselves for the world.

But there was still the fact that he needed to work out more, so once we finished our 'lesson,' I broached the topic. "Um… well… you need to be able to hold up that bar of pig iron for long periods of time…"

"You're implying?"

"You'll need to be stronger… you might lift more than me, but I can lift longer than you… see?" I asked tentatively. Egos are flammable.

"I'm weak." Wow. He said it. I can't believe that he actually said the words. I had to capture this moment somehow…

"Could you repeat that?" I asked, blinking back laughter. Ha ha. In your face, Griffen.

"No. I said it once, and I refuse to say it again," he stated, and I couldn't resist but to torment him further.

"But it is so nice to hear someone say, 'I'm weak,' especially you, Monsieur Griffen." I thought of my encounter with Freestep for some reason, and I felt like I had to mention it, but I didn't.

"Why especially me?"

"Because you are delusional about yourself," I told the truth, and after a bit of small talk and good-byes, I was headed home.

When I finally got home, I ran up to my tower, which was a filthy, if organized, mess. My bed wasn't made, a bit of my whip was sticking out from under the bed, and clothing littered the floor.

It was time to clean.

That dreaded, horrifying time where you have to pick everything up off the floor, stick it where it belongs, and make sure it stays there. Doubtlessly, I was terrified. The maids weren't paid to clean our personal chambers, not that I'd let them if they were, and no one else was even near qualified to even aide me in cleaning up this proclaimed disaster area.

So I had to.

And nothing was very eventful, but for the fact that I found the letter you sent me on the dresser, so that is why I haven't replied in a while, my own slovenly habits. And then there was the whole interlude of the watch.

You remember how I gave Lamont that watch when we met for the interrogation? He's kept it, and apparently in his pocket… unaware that lightly touching the clock face will activate the signal if you are an agent. Unfortunately for him, the clock was open, but that was his fault, so I had every right to listen in, not that I wouldn't have if I hadn't had the right.

That conversation I overheard was fascinating, even if I only got to see the inside of Lamont's pocket. Here it is. I suppose they were walking through a park:

"Monsieur Lamont, I must ask you… have you ever heard of the Underworld?" It was Joel's voice, ringing clear through the pocket watch and into the wall, where I stared at the views of the pocket. But _Joel, _a _member_, was asking about the Underworld to someone else… wasn't that illegal, or did Celia change around the rules?

Lamont hesitated. "Yes, I've heard of it. Why?"

"I must warn you that if you have any ties in it, cut or reveal them. I have ties, but for me it is not so risky… for you it could mean horrible, horrible consequences. The Underground, in London, has been found, but luckily only one person shall be punished… the leader of it. I know it is a secret society – or was, anyway, but now the Underground has changed hands back to the original owner, and that could be dangerous for… them." JOEL YOU IDIOT!!! How could he say so much? Wasn't he a battalion leader? But in this case, I could control him again… ha ha, vengeance! But Celia, has, apparently, been condemned, and I don't know where she'll go. No one in London knows who she is, except for the Underground people, but they are loyal to both her and me, so they won't turn either of us in…

"Gwendolyn…" Lamont thought aloud. In a hasty movement, I could tell that Joel had gripped Lamont's arm, preparing to lock it, when he asked.

"How much do you know?" It sounded like his teeth were gritted, but frustratingly, I still had only the view of the pocket.

Frightened, Lamont replied, "She's started a new organization, but she prefers the Underground. There are few people in the new organization so far, and she welcomes most… it's strange the way she hasn't tried to get John to join yet…"

"Obviously, not a lot. I came to make sure she lived, and wasn't attacked… we still have our loyalties. Whatever group she calls the new one, the Underworld will always be at first her command, then the new one's."

"Why tell me?"

"Because you seem to deal with Gwen a great deal, and it seems the French are on her tail. Wouldn't want to get caught up in something like this, now would you?"

"Ought we warn her?"

"If she hasn't had anyone warn her yet, you don't. Obviously you are new. I was a battalion leader… one of the few. The battalions protect her if she doesn't know. And we always do little jobs, like protecting everyone else, too, and other things…"

The grip on Lamont's arm relaxed, I could tell from his voice. I think that I need to re-hire Joel, while he is here, to the Sector. He may have only been something like fourteen when he left, and I may not want to meet him again, but he'd do a good job, and he's even more of a veteran than Maria is.

"But John-,"

The grin was in Joel's voice. "Her Underground was like a school. If she didn't invite John, and if she knows him pretty well, then there's a reason. I've got some ideas, but you get your own. That's what promotion is." I AM GOING TO KILL JOEL!!!!! They both have said ENOUGH. More than enough… I need a punishment that will suit them. "Wait…" Joel's voice frowned.

The view became daylight as Monsieur Freestep seized the stop watch out of Lamont's pocket, and I dove behind my bed, knowing what would happen next. They would see into my filthy room.

But they wouldn't see me.

I was right.

A cold voice talked down at Lamont. "This is open, and on. It probably touched the inner surface of your pocket, which would activate the scry-spell. Therefore, our subject could have been listening to us the entire time."

I grinned. They thought I hadn't, but HA HA!!! I am going to freak them out.

"Lamont, you really need to learn the intricacies of espionage."

And then the lid snapped shut.

HAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just WAIT!!! They are going to be so surprised, they won't know what hit'em!!! I'm going to speak to each of them privately… oho, this is going to be good. I wish you could be here… I still hate facing that IDIOT, or should I say, BOTH idiots.

I've got blackmail material!!!

Gwen

* * *

It is the author once again. The end of this piece was getting boring for me to write, and it may or may not be obvious. Yeah, well. I don't really know what to say. Except-

Okay, if you didn't notice this before JOEL has made a previous appearance. He didn't just happen in this chapter. I don't know which chapter he is in, but its not really important.

I suppose I don't really have anything else to say. Yeah, well. If there is any confusion, please review with said confusion and I'll do my best to clear it up.

And not that anyone cares, except maybe Thunder (cough cough LISTEN UP, Thunder cough), I am writing a second - or third or fourth or fifth fairytale. I think it is going to be Cinderella based, but it is going to be very... different, because I disagree with the whole love-at-first-sight thing.

And Thunder, if that didn't tip you off enough, the girl's name is MADEIRA, or LEERA, or, if you insist...

MINDEL von BRONWEN.

Yeah, I'm publishing that. As a one shot. And I really need to shut up now, but consider yourself warned.

Gvensar Arielta Quasalion

And to those readers who continue to read, the name Gvensar Arielta Quasalion is kindof a clue. A huge one. The rest of the clue will happen in the future.


	8. Chapter 8: Meet Mutt

_Dear Francisco,_

My days have been pleasant, my nights have been pleasant, everything's just been too damn pleasant. True, I've got all the new material, but it's been a few days, and nothing really has happened about that. And I want to make a figurative explosion and hissy-fit with that work as well, not just some simple confrontation.

As I wait to use the new material, life is, as I said multiple times, pleasant. This morning I decided to sneak out on an _official_ walk, so I wasn't in my servant's garb. In fact (I know you'll be proud of me), Aunt Eloise actually _knew._ All she did was give a thin lipped glare, and I was on my way, dressed in pink with white frills and a matching parasol. (Which Aunt Eloise stared at.)

Yes, as you can tell by my apparel, I was trying to make a statement, that not only is pink a stupid color, but those who wear it are, hmm… how should I put this nicely? _Jerks._ Yes, that works. And they are.

Sorry for the tangent, but it was inescapably wonderful; it let out feelings of deep hatred I didn't even know I had.

So, I was walking, as you have, inescapably, grasped, in pink and etc. Accidentally, I misconstrued the lessening number of people moving to France as "this is probably the most there will be, give or take a few" but I was wrong. In truth, we came early. A second wave of season-comers is arriving, and it's hopefully the last. I thought there were enough as it was.

You couldn't care less, but I was walking primly through the park, batting my eyelashes at passersby. Oddly, a few of them backed away as if they were frightened. Ha ha. Still, I had Spiristor, so they knew nothing big had happened. It was truly hilarious, though – the parasol twirling, and me walking, all of this in pink - absolutely priceless.

After a while, I began to get sick of this whole charade. You would too. The dress was all hot and itchy, and it was all in all ugly, and potentially embarrassing. Dropping the entire façade of character, I headed home. Or tried. (Note how nothing is ever really my fault, and I never provoke anyone. Note it.)

A group of young ladies (such as myself, plus the effects, minus Spiristor) were standing below a large oak tree wearing petty white gloves and the pink and yellow dresses, whirling their parasols. I hadn't met them before, and couldn't much care. I wanted out of this disgusting clothing. Luckily, I'd "neglected" the corset. Walking past them, nonchalantly, justly unaware of their "holy" presence, I hurried. Then a tallish (ok, so taller than I) one stopped me, in the most polite, politically correct way I have ever seen. It could have made a world record, if anyone had ever cared to keep track of that sort of thing.

"Hello," she spoke in a distinct British accent, "Pardon, I don't believe I've met you before. What is your name?" Though she'd donned a smile, it was a small, insincere one at that. "Mine is Emily, Lord Fairfax is my father." Maybe the gesture was supposed to impress me.

"Please leave me alone. I am certain you are a very nice person. Goodbye."

She cut across my pathway, and her cronies came to block the remainder of it off as well, though from a distance it would've appeared like a pleasant meeting.

"But we don't even know your name," she smiled wider, and I visualized the long canines a vampire would have. They'd suit her. I hope she wasn't just a nice person. I didn't _want_ to offend her. I just did.

Oh, who cared.

"Look, I asked nicely," I stated, drawing Spiristor, "and I would _really_ like to get home." You would've loved to see their horrified faces, distorting into open-mouthed gapes. Only one of them seemed not to care. She was looking off into the distance elsewhere, ignoring me entirely. "Now, would you please get out of my way? I've got times to keep," I'd added the last bit to make it sound official, though it was anything but.

Gasps erupted from their open mouths, and I walked past, continuing to ignore them, but aware perfectly of the glare that Emily Fairfax was giving me. Somehow, I knew that that glare would haunt me.

I finally reached home, and said nothing of my exploits to anyone at all. Emily Fairfax is weird. It is that simple.

"No chance." Those were my exact words to Aunt Eloise as she stepped over the line. It was a figurative line. It was a very fine, purple figurative line. None of that made any difference.

Aunt Eloise had just sprung upon me an appalling circumstance, which happened to be my immediate future. That circumstance involved going to – you guessed it – a party. And guess where? Why is it that we always end up going to the Lamont's or the Griffin's? Why not the Smitheson's or the Temple's? Why always people that I know??? And naturally, the Griffen's. Why didn't I hear of this?

This party at the Griffen's – as most of them weren't _just_ parties, no, that would be too difficult – was also a musical performance, with a _live band._ Stab me through the heart and I might be less shocked, seriously.

After putzing around all day, pretending to help Maria and Steph, we all managed to file into a carriage to leave. I had Spiristor, and was wearing a black top and a plaid ankle-length green and red skirt that was rather nice looking. My wardrobe is being extended, for better or for worse, and the most I can do is channel that extension.

As a tale you have heard too many times before, we arrived at the Griffen's, and Maria and I snuck in, and so on and so forth.

Or not.

Sure, we got in through the side door, but we were caught. By a jerk. You can guess the jerk's name.

"Ah, how… interesting, milady. And you too, Mademoiselle." Griffen bowed politely at Maria and I, his amused tone irritating me to the extremes. You'd think that polite people could be sincere, but no. Not possible. Pas possible.

Equal in my politeness and insincerity, I smiled, "How _wonderful_ it is to meet you, Griffen. If you will allow me, I will be on my way." _Accidentally_, my tone was laced with menace.

Oops. Yeah right.

"But Lady Gwendolyn, my mother begs of you, dance with me…?"

No. Way. How could she? No, not about M. Griffen, I expect him to be insolent. Maria… she snuck off while I was busy getting the git to leave _us_ alone. But the "us" was now changed to "I." And the "I" was rather… irritated. Then I remembered.

"This isn't a dance. It's a band."

"It's an _orchestra_, and that's not the point. It's both."

I shut up, and a voice was booming in my head. _Sucks to be you, Gwen, sucks to be you._ I agreed with it, very much. In a futile attempt to save my butt, I said, "We could continue to listen to the band," and I smiled falsely, knowing I wouldn't get out of the "we" part. I emphasized the "band," just to irritate Griffen.

Griffen played his Joker. "We could do both." That got me stuck, and I was unfortunately forced to accompany him to the dance floor. It's too bad I didn't "remember" the horrible headache I had. The little voice in my head, ironically, was getting louder and louder. Funny. Bitter, I replied.

"Fine. Don't expect me to tolerate you that long, though."

"Milady," John smiled a half smile, "I don't expect you to tolerate me at all." I kept my trap shut, because you know what happens when I open it. Not allowing M. Griffen to lead me, I walked to the ballroom where I had so unfortunately met him in the first place. Oddly, I didn't like it. Or maybe that wasn't so odd. Anyhow, the orchestra was in the corner, being led by a tall guy with graying hair, emphatically gesturing at certain sections of the orchestra. He seemed to glare at the violins a lot. Good. I didn't like violins either.

Scanning the orchestra, I noticed one of the girls that I'd so rudely met earlier, the one who had been off to the side, ignoring me, while the rest of them had acted like I was a mouse and they were the cats. Not a normal sensation for me, I insist you understand. She was at a cello, moving her fingers fast enough that I think she probably was a logger on a side job. One of the few women in the group, her hair was pulled back into a mousy brown blob at the back, and she was biting her lip until I could almost _see_ drops of blood forming.

Someone poked my shoulder. I turned to glare at Griffen. "Yeah?"

"I thought we were going to dance, first of all, and a man is staring at you. He's by the entrance to the buffet. Don't stare back." For once, Griffen displayed some sign of discretion. Good job, Griffen. I'd never tell you that aloud. Looking back to the orchestra (I know, I know), I pretended to be absorbed with the flutes and violins and the music in general. I stole a glance out of the corner of my eyes, and found the guy, pretending to be looking nonchalantly everywhere else _except_ for me. This in itself told me he'd been staring, or, as he would like to put it, "watching."

Yeah, I knew him. You won't be surprised to know that the moron was Joel. At least I could get him to stop. "Wait here, Griffen." Without waiting for a reply, I stormed off to Joel.

"God, you're such an idiot, Joel."

"So are you, Gwen. Didn't know you'd lost so much talent. Should've probably stayed with Celia, eh?" Inside, I was smiling maniacally. He couldn't go back to Celia. Thanks to that lovely conversation with Lamont, I knew he was trying to play a card he didn't have.

"Joel, don't try to lie. You were never very good at that. Both you and I know that if you go back to Celia, you'll have your head on a spike as warning to passersby." I smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Haven't lost too much talent, now have I?"

Too seasoned to blush or go pale, Joel smiled a pasty fake smile to cover up his distress. "Maybe I underestimated you. But where'd you get that? Certainly…"

"Ah, tsk tsk tsk, Joel. Isn't 'don't underestimate anyone' one of the first laws? And I'll tell you where I found that lovely information." I had to, understand, because he may think that I came to Paris to avoid being prosecuted. If that message was relayed to London, and my Underground believed it, I'd have more than one deadly assassin on my trail. Assassins that I'd taught in the first place. "You know that lovely double way pocketwatch Lamont has? You see me, I see you? You hear me, I hear you? Well once upon a time, Lamont left that watch open…" I waited, smirking, for the reaction. This was going better than planned, even if I didn't want to use the information this soon.

"Gwen, you know-"

Joel glanced behind me, cutting himself off, and I knew it was Griffen. Ignoring him, I finished to Joel, "Freestep, you're on probation. Know that. Live that. Tell Lamont that. Some of the stuff you said to Lamont, some of the stuff he said to you… unacceptable. However, you may not want to mention that if I need to… "lock" one of you, it will most likely be him, Joel. Have a nice evening."

Before I could get away, Joel spat the one semi-insult he could think of at me. "Didn't know you were one to accept a suitor, Gwen." I stopped where I was, and turned to Freestep slowly.

With ice in my heart and eyes, I glared at the jerk. "I don't think you understand, _Joel._ This is Monsieur Griffen. He hates me, and I hate him back, probably more so. The only reason we even speak is because he belongs to the French government and found out that I belonged to the Underworld, and he was willing to be bribed so long as I taught him how to fight as though he knew how. In return, he is also teaching me magic so that I can mute the likes of you for good. If you dare even _think_ something even _remotely _like that_ ever_ again, I will disown you, publicly humiliate you with a sword, then steal your fortune, if you even have one." Then I threw a particularly nasty glare, and ran off, disgusted by Joel's behavior.

* * *

I hate people. I hate people. I hate people. I hate Griffen. I hate Freestep. I hate people.

Those were the lines I repeated as I stomped out the servant's exit of the Griffen's, not bothering to illusion myself. Even the little voice in my head that had been whispering "sucks to be you, Gwen, sucks to be you" before had gone away, in fear for its miserable life. Good.

To further my luck, it was raining outside. And it didn't look like it was going to stop. Oh well. See if I cared. I walked out into the courtyard, and decided it didn't do me any good to stay at the Griffen's. In my pocket, I had a few francs, enough for bread. Eat in boredom. Cool.

Taking my good 'ole time, I moped slowly to the bakery, but never made it. The whole of Paris was gray and blue it seemed. All the colors were dulled. Water pooled between the grey cobblestones, and filtered into the storm drains. Not many people were out, and those who were were generally in the carriages responsible for soaking me with the rain, which didn't improve my mien.

_Everyone has their share of good and bad days… you just have more drastic of each, Gwen, because you are bipolar. And maybe schizophrenic._

Aloud, I said, "I am _not_ bipolar. And don't even talk about schizophrenia." I was lucky it was raining and no one else was around. Or maybe I wasn't so lucky. It would have gotten me a few odd stares. But maybe, just maybe, odd stares weren't what I needed right now.

About to go into that pleasant boulangerie (bread bakery), I heard a clash of metal on stone. Curious, I walked into the alleyway beside the bakery. More clashes ensued, and I started walking faster. I heard a dog bark. I ran.

Behind the shop there was a dumpster, but it seemed that a great deal of the garbage had been emptied from it. A black and brown, slightly bushy-haired dog, looking like some sort of German-Shepherd mutt, was backing away from a man who seemingly came from the bakery, it's body close to the ground in a defensive posture.

Both angry and tired – I wasn't naïve, I knew that most restaurants, shops, etc, beat dogs and other animals going through their trash – I spoke to the man. "Please stop. Why is it a problem that this poor dog is eating garbage that you're just going to have to pay to put in a dump?" Maybe my lack of success in this area was because I was tired, and my tone was one of sad, exhausted, exasperation, as opposed to clean cut and aristocratic.

Instead of even acknowledging my existence, he denied my request by simply throwing the poker he had at the dog.

I think I know what my one question to ask God would be, if he exists, and if I had a question. It would be, "why don't people just get along?"

On second thought, nevermind.

I already knew the answer to that question. (It's because people like me exist.)

Though tired, I had to be the heroine (no, not the drug). Drawing Spiristor, I tilted my head to one side, and pulled upon the remaining sarcastic and aristocratic speech I had left for the day. "That wasn't a request, or a question. It was a demand, you fool." I sounded much less tired than I actually was, score for me.

The man didn't seem scared, nor did he speak to me. He simply glared mockingly and slammed the back entrance to the Patisserie, which was actually, a boulangerie, in my face.

I glanced at the dog, who had sat down in front of me, staring at me with a speculative eye.

Right now, it certainly looked like an ugly mutt, but below its grimy fur it seemed almost… regal? Majestic? Proud? Whatever. The question was what to do with it.

I won't bother you with the details of my thought process, because you know me better than I do. You knew the second that you heard the word "dog" and "beat" that the dog was going to be mine. And you were right. He didn't have a collar, so I wasn't really stealing. More like extended care. I named him Conscience, because I need one, but like he'd like being called that, and like I'd like calling him that.

So I call him Mutt.

"You okay?" I raised an eyebrow at him, not waiting for an answer. "C'mon, let's go to someplace cooler." I walked off, and Mutt followed at my side. As I walked through the streets, my soaked clothes and hair weighing me down, I spoke in constant streams to Mutt. "You know you're going to have to sleep outside. I never said living with me would be nice. My aunt is gonna hate you." However, I could almost _see_ Mutt rolling his eyes at me. Mean dog. I'm just trying to warn him…

That night, I was asleep in bed when I woke up.

You'll already know that I tiptoed down the steps and opened the back door, ushering Mutt in to sleep with me. Ah, an ending so pleasant to a tale so crude.

Your esteemed friend,

Gwen

* * *

**As I have said, multiple times, GWEN IS NOT ME!!!**

**So yeah. **

**Reviews are very _very_ nice.**


	9. Chapter 9: Match Unmet

_Dear Fransisco,_

Hey. How are you? Life here is good, and I've recently been avoiding Freestep and Griffen. I even went so far as to miss my magic lessons in order to avoid the embarrassment meeting them will bring. I suppose I'll have to see them eventually, though, and upon that meeting, there will be limited speech and many icy petrifying glares.

In the meantime, Mutt and I have become inseparable. Or rather, Mutt has become attached to me, as opposed to vice versa. I have the scruples to not go back to that bread bakery that I used to go to, though, because, though they do make wonderful bread, I can see how Mutt might not welcome that occupancy, and how the bread bakery may not welcome Mutt either. So we were forced to find an alternate shop.

In illusion (generally "highly esteemed" ladies don't walk around with massive dogs at their heels, and I wish to provide society a time to get over my last blow up, and Mutt didn't seem to mind at any rate), we were walking down the street I described to you so long ago (it seems). Patisserie wouldn't work, for the aforementioned reason. If _I _were Mutt, I certainly wouldn't want to go back there. And it's not like we could just stop eating bread, for crying out loud. Aunt Eloise would have a fit.

As we walked down the cobbled street, I noticed a short man, about AE's age, staring puzzled from me to Mutt. Curious, I slowed. He immediately started doing something with whatever was in his hands, just fiddling.

Then Mutt caught sight or smell of him, and I couldn't have detained him if I'd wanted to (meaning Mutt, not the man). He raced over, wagging his tail viciously, even going so far as to jump on the man. I was jealous; Mutt _never _jumped on me. Pushing the dog down, the man walked over to me. It was obvious he worked for a living, and his countenance was quite cheerful. His hair was more than just tinged with a hint of grey, so to speak, and his eyes had the creases from smiling, as he was doing now. Not a full smile (those are frightening), but a small half-grin, as if he didn't know what to make of me. Why am I not surprised?

"Monsieur, please pardon me…" Why was I playing the nice happy person card? Good question, but alas, I have a legitimate answer: the man looked away. He had knowledge. Also, the very fact that he noticed me looking is at least a small sign of talent, however much I will not know until I put him to the test. But all of that requires his assent. And a happy go lucky polite person more easily gains assent.

"Ach, it's fine, miss. Leroy and I have a history togeth'r." His accent was interesting, as was his pronunciation of Leroy. He pronounced it as luhROY as opposed to LEEroy. "I'm just glad that he's fin'ly found some 'un to take a proper care o' him."

"And how would you know that I am that person?" I asked.

"Leroy doesn't stick round with people he dislikes. And he's got extr'vagant tastes. You'd suit him." His smile grew more whole-hearted, but it was more a light in his face as opposed to a widening of his smile.

Raising an eyebrow (I find myself doing that a great deal of the time), I stated, "What makes you think I have extravagant tastes?"

"Maybe 'extr'vagant' wasn't the ward," he held. "Maybe well-to-do would provide a better mean'ng. I s'pose you might join me for some tea? Leroy gen'rally brings round int'resting folks."

Curious, I agreed. And I had Spiristor, n'est-ce pas? I could only get into so much trouble. I looked down at Spiristor, and then it hit me.

I was in illusion.

Thick, physical illusion, not the difficult, unnecessary unanchored sort. The kind that was wrapped in objects. The kind that no one could see through. Sure, they might be able to see that it was there, but certainly not see through it.

And this man had witnessed me in the garb I was actually wearing – a gold necklace, a tailored skirt and blazer. Or at least, his comments made it seem so. At that point, I had no choice but to follow the man through the streets, Mutt (cough LEROY cough) at his heels. Trailing through an alleyway, he finally found a side door and slipped through it, Leroy and I in pursuit.

We found ourselves in a bar-like atmosphere, which was no real problem. It wasn't like they were foreign to me, I'd actually quite liked some in England, as you may recall, it's just that bars don't generally attract "well-to-do" or "chivalrous" crowds. But then again, recalling England, everything has an exception.

The man motioned to the barman that we were present, and sat down at a corner table, inviting me to do so myself.

"Miss, I don't suppose you would like some tea?" Only faint traces of the foreign accent remained.

"Thank you sir, but no."

Shouting over to the barman, he yelled in an easy going manner (trust me, I didn't know there was an easy-going way to yell either), "One ale, another lemonade… please."

"Excuse me, sir, but frankly-"

"All in good time, Miss, all in good time. Just wait a second." He glanced at the barman who was coming over. "As you of all people know, I'm not what you believe me to be. Of course, that's reliant on what you believe me to be." I had no answer for this, as I do not major in any way shape or form in philosophy, unless the ability to get questions answered with or without employing force, extortion, or blackmail has anything to do with it.

I took note that the barman was carrying three glasses, and wondered naturally what the 3rd was for (or who). Then I saw the barman's face.

It's as though all of my life is somehow linked to parts of my life in the past. It really messes you up after a while, but then you realize that there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

In any case, the barman was Gregor. Even you have to admit that that is really really really messed up.

"Ah, now we can begin. Take a seat, Gregor." Gregor, being the suckup he is, took a seat. "Am I correct, Gregor, in believing that this is the one you met at the Covington's? Or was Leroy mistaken? Of course, they met under unusual circumstances; Leroy wasn't searching at the time, but nonetheless."

"There is no semblance whatsoever."

"Excuse me-" I didn't like the way they were talking about me as if I weren't there. Not very many people do it, and I hope they aren't about to start.

"Oh, of course…" the man turned to me. "I sincerely apologize, but would you please take off your illusion? The name's Murphy, by the way." Ah, when you give me power, you can hear the consequences. And Murphy???

"Sorry, no. I have questions."

"And I presume you want them answered." I didn't reply, as he'd affirmed it in a manner that knew my answer. "Miss, pardon, but not everyone's going to answer your questions. I suggest you get used to it. And if you choose not to go the easy way, I can disable your illusions. Permanently. If, of course, you choose."

"Ah, sir, then, allow me. I'll leave, if you don't mind." I stated. I don't like these sorts of situations. They're rather depressing. But who can disable illusions? I mean physical ones, naturally.

"Miss, I'm afraid we can't have that," Murphy stated, and stood up, drawing a sword I hadn't previously noticed at his belt. Lovely. More dueling. Spiristor was immediately in my hand.

"Does that help at all?" Murphy looked at Gregor, who was smiling uneasily. How would that help them? With what?

"Yes, I'm afraid. That's the sword." Oh crud. I half realized it before I turned to Spiristor. Spiristor seems to cause a load of trouble, even though I have no idea what this trouble is about. In any case, Spiristor was out of illusion. Stupid Murphy took it off, I bet.

"That better not be permanent," I gritted my teeth and glared menacingly at Murphy.

"Milady, I'm afraid that many will not adhere to your directions to polite society. And continuing: Gregor, you say that this sword belongs – or belonged – to…?"

"Sir Patrick Quasalion… that was eight generations ago. It was lost." Gregor took a sip out of his mug. "And we're not the only ones looking for it."

"Quasalion…" turning to me, Murphy asked, "would you mind a short bout? It's difficult to tell what your sword is without it touching it, and that wouldn't even help as much as a battle might."

I stared at him for a moment, then acknowledged and accepted his request in a small polite nod. "Alright." Murphy drew his own sword, which was at his belt, and I had to gawk.

I'd never seen anything like it. The blade was shimmering obsidian black against Spiristor's white steel, and the hilt and guard matched Spiristor's to a pin, but they were differently colored with a different emblem. Where Spiristor's emblem was an open eye, this foreign sword's emblem was a heart. The only similar thing between the two besides general design was a small turquoise chip, inside Spiristor's eye, and the heart's center. They were, in effect, opposites.

Murphy and I bowed, and began. I knew I needed practice, therefore I immediately started the Sight.

But there was a problem.

It took a while for me to notice that I gained nothing through the Sight. I kept on parrying and counter-parrying, taking a whack or stab or lunge here and there, but Murphy kept up.

And when I looked closer, I saw that Murphy was using the Sight. There was no way he wasn't, in any case. His moves were fluid, his mind and body separately together to work on my downfall. Or so it appeared. We seemed evenly matched, the only even match I'd had in a long while… the only even match I've had for years. Generally, I am angry to be bested. But I'd not been bested yet – I'd merely gotten a chance to get much needed training.

In my moments of thought, I'd lost the trace of the battle – where had it gone? What was he doing? It was difficult to tell. Everything was blurry. Had I knocked myself out of Sight? That was the only reasonable explanation for this obfuscating digression. Amidst the turmoil, I could feel the flat of the other sword fighting to disarm me. I did what I could, among all of the twisting, some of which was my own, and managed to feel Murphy's obsidian blade barely cut a line along my nose. It was a miracle that it wasn't (my nose) broken, considering the great amount of force applied elsewhere, but then again, that's the Sight.

I could feel the minute trail of blood dripping down my nose, onto my lips. I pulled away from the battle, not in a surrender position, but in one of truce. Huge difference.

Nonetheless, Murphy (jerk, to a degree) disarmed me. For some reason, though, he kept far from Spiristor, who was now lying sidelong on the floor. He held out a hand. Ignoring it, I pushed myself to my feet.

"Sorry, Miss." He grinned a devil's grin. "Didn't know that you were one to pale at blood."

As quick with a retort as I could be given the circumstances, I replied, "I'm not, but I would have preferred some warning as to this being a bloody battle." For good measure I added, "and a swordsman who can best an opponent without spilling a drop of blood is more talented and worthy than one who can chop a man to bits within seconds. Mozzeltov, fellow."

"Well versed warrior… must be some end to your talents." Murphy chuckled as I sheathed Spiristor. "That's the one. Unmistakeable… they were trying to merge like… it was amazing…" Funny. I hadn't felt a thing.

"What happened to my invincibility?" I asked, truly wanting to know. Murphy couldn't lift it, could he?

"It's still there. You never lost, did you? Admittedly, your swordsmanship could use a bit of work here or there, but the bout ended in truce, which is legal, no?" Ach, Murphy. Notice that he just happens to be the only one that could justifiably say anything remotely like that, but instead of being modest, like most, he just rubs it in like salt on a wound? Oh so tactful.

Turning to Gregor: the look on his face was beautiful. It wasn't too obvious that he was trying to cover up astonishment. Just obvious enough to make himself look like a dunce. Maybe I'm coloring this picture with a few of my own pencils.

So sue me.

It comes to mind that if all of these times, you'd taken my advice, I'd be living in the streets as a beggar by now. Just a thought. Unless there's some weird rule where you can't sue people who don't have anything. But still, I'd be living (or not) in the streets. Not so pleasant.

Being the incredibly modest person that I am, I had to say, "I could have won, you know, provided I hadn't lost focus."

"Ah, but milady, you lost focus, did you not? And was it not stated that you never lost? You merely made a truce?" Fifty year old guys really need to find something better to do than boss me around and make me fight to first blood when we're only having a "friendly bout".

"Seriously, though, I'd like to train you or train with you. First even match I've had in ages." Murphy took a long gulp of his ale and wiped the sweat off of his brow in the most dramatic performance of such that I'd ever seen. It was pathetic, in its own, special way. "When are you free?" Gregor looked kind of lost amidst all of this skill, and I really couldn't blame him. Imagine, for example, that you went to an International Archer's Convention, and you'd really never touched a bow in your life? It would be embarrassing. Not that I'd know from personal experience…

Say… a thought occurred to me. "Can you fight with a bullwhip?" I took on a kind of indifferent expression (no need to get all chummy with these guys), but if I was going to train with Murphy as it was (and it made sense that I would, too – you have no clue how awesome it is to have an even match for once), why not learn bullwhip, if he knew it? Better than learning from Freestep, at any rate. That would be embarrassing.

"Nah. I use sword." Oh well. Nice try, anyway.

"What time is it anyway?" Gregor speculated, probably not really caring, as is the nature of that sort of question. Yet, within his casually stated uncaringly poised question, I saw a way out of here and back home – not that I necessarily needed to go home, but it would be nice to be able to think on this lovely venture.

"Eleven and thirty minutes, I presume… judging on the sun…" Murphy glanced out the grimy filth stained window.

Seeing my getaway, I made a face. "Oh, I will be missed for tea at noon if I am not back quickly – I _do _apologize, my _dear_ sirs," I snickered in my mind, "but I must leave you for the moment. And you can keep this lovely dog," I glared at the dog, Leroy, who simply acted smug, "so that I may be assured that I am not spied upon or, as you so eloquently put it, _watched._ Good day." And then I left. With no intention of getting to noon tea (if AE even had noon tea today) whatsoever.

When I finally did get back though (with an excellent loaf of bread, if I do say so myself – I'm still going to have to find a new place, though), the first thing that I noticed was Spiristor – my illusion had been replaced.

And the second thing I noticed?

When I finally took off said illusion, there was an inscription on the blade.

Yeah, no kidding. An _inscription._ The only really sucky part about the whole thing was that I couldn't _read _the inscription. It was in a different language – a language that didn't use Arabic letters. The symbols were fascinating – they didn't even look like the hieroglyphics that M. Gorre showed us – these had no pictoral meaning, and they were entrancing.

As much as I would have loved to stare longer at Spiristor (or march right back to Murphy to find out what the hell had happened), there was really nothing that I could do to enhance my understanding of what was before me. So I sheathed Spiristor, and left.

Maria encountered me in the hallway. It was kind of odd, actually.

"Hello, Gwen. Had a lovely morning?" It was a routine sort of greeting – so routine that it was obvious she was just getting pleasantries over with. I decided to get to the point.

"What is it?"

She smiled. "Actually, I've found someone else. Already interviewed him and everything. I hope you don't mind?"

Truth was, I really couldn't care less. Admittedly, I didn't want infiltrators, but Maria was qualified. "Not if you did the interviewing. The job's accepted and everything? He has a watch? All that other stuff that I gave you a supply of?"

"Yes. And he's reported a lovely bit of information." Hesitating, she amended, "well, really it's quite boring, but it'll work to see if he's trustworthy. You know the masquerade ball the Covington's are holding tomorrow evening?" I didn't really, but I nodded my head anyway. Best to act like you know in cases like these. "He said there was an old woman who collapsed on their doorstep – very sickly. They say she has something weird about her – thought you might want to check it out. And Aunt Eloise was going to make us go anyway."

I smiled. "That should work nicely. Good job. Sounds fun." The thing was, it did sound kind of fun. Kind of simple. Kind of pleasant, and easy, and good for everyone.

And the thing was, I met Gregor at the Covington's. And Gregor, I think, would know what these symbols meant.

Sincerely,

Your Evil Mastermind,

Gwen


	10. Chapter 10: Masquerade

_Dear Francisco,_

I am going to start off complaining right away. You have been forewarned.

"Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn, where did you put that dress that was delivered yesterday?" I swear AE's voice was shriller than usual. But there was a motif – didn't she want me to be socially acceptable at the Covington's _last_ time, too? And now this dress. It would be easier just to put it on…

But really, I wasn't sure AE would appreciate the way I got Leroy to pee on it. Seriously, did she honestly think that _I _would ever masquerade as an opera singer? (I looked more like a slut, anyway, in _that _dress.) Don't get me wrong – I have nothing against the opera, but it is simply not _me_. It would be better, in this case, to pretend I hadn't even seen it.

"What dress?" It went on and on like this, until she gave up, very fortunately, for my patience was beginning to shred. One can bear only so much interrogation from a disliked aunt, no matter what an act of charity it was for her to take one in in the first place. Therefore, I was free to dress as I chose.

As you probably figured, I had _not_ been planning on attending a masquerade. I was _not _prepared with a beautiful, elaborate costume… Thus, I had to pull a few strings to get something in time. But the string pulling was worth it. Definitely.

I was an Eqyptian Queen. (Do the Egyptians actually have queens? What were they called? I shall have to look into this.)

Well, to be specific, I was Cleopatra. I mean, you can't really be any Egyptian Queen. And even Cleopatra's reputation was a bit… well, not-my-style.

And really, the costume was… perfect. Beautiful. Amazing. So… flowy, yet it still looked like Cleopatra. I didn't have a wig, and I wasn't about to die my hair, so I just left that go. And I still managed to pull off the ensemble… 

Aunt Eloise didn't even purse her lips at my costume, nor did she act exasperated. She didn't even really seem to notice. I stepped into our carriage, took a seat, and stared out the window on the drive. I contemplated life. I would elaborate, but really, what can one say of consequence about a carriage ride without interruption? Is the number of potholes one can feel beneath the wheels really a relevant detail?

I thought not. Therefore, I withhold from further commentary, except to say that we arrived at the Covington's in good time.

That was when the drama began.

Not immediately, of course, because a drama occurs over a period of time. My life, as you have probably noted, is not exactly an action adventure novel. This is a rhetorical statement, and, therefore, please refrain from comment. I don't need someone else reminding me how boring my life is.

Instead of being announced, as we would have been at a typical ball, we were merely greeted and allowed to go on our separate ways. The ball could already be considered well attended – that was one object for which I could commend Aunt Eloise; she always arrived a good twenty minutes late, when events were beginning to pick up. Usually it didn't matter; today was really my first chance to appreciate this.

Naturally, Maria and I took off immediately. We did not dance, but instead skirted the edges of the hall – or rather, _I _did not dance. Maria, on the other hand… and every time she danced, she'd give me one of her apologetic looks that really meant nothing and one of her little shrugs that she always gave Aunt Eloise that were supposed to mean, "I'm so sorry – I couldn't help it. Really." Pah. Did she think that I wouldn't notice that _she _was the one asking for each dance?

I mentioned that, and she pretended not to hear me.

Finally, it became ridiculous. "Maria – "

"Today I'm not Maria – I'm Juliet. From that sensational new playwright's tragedy." Maria flipped her hair over her shoulder in a girlish manner, and for a moment I wondered whether I was actually dealing with Maria, and not Juliet. Well, if she took her masquerade so seriously, good for her, I supposed. That's what being a spy was – a masquerade. It was kind of annoying that she wasn't normal to _me _though.

"It's lovely that you are acquainted with modern literature, _Juliet._ However, I would suggest that you go dance to find a Romeo, and consequently allow me to deal with this recruit _alone."_

I swear that as she was flitting (yes, I mean that) away, she muttered, "Who said anything about Romeo? It's Benvolio that I'm looking for…" I don't know. It could have been a figment of my imagination…

Or not.

And now the not-so-great task was left to me. Well, there was nothing better to do.

Then again, I was liking the looks of this masquerade. It was difficult to tell who people were, and I'd personally made sure that no one would be able to recognize me… would it really kill me to dance with Marc Antony? Just once…

_He wouldn't even be able to recognize you._

Shut up.

_He's really very nice looking. Probably a foreigner. No one from around here looks like that. See! You'd never see him again. And he wouldn't know you anyway._

I'm not listening.

_Ooh, look at that impeccable waltz! And impeccable manners. Too bad he doesn't seem to like Gisele Deuxbury particularly…_

I bet he can't –

_He's walking over here!_

Is not!

_Is too!_

Is not!

_Ha!_

The little voice in my head won the first battle, for Marc Antony was indeed coming over to the piece of wall I was occupying. He did look very nice…

_See! I told you so._

…for someone several feet deep in masquerade makeup, clothing, and illusions. I didn't feel like asking him to turn them off, either; I preferred to be fooled. He was a foreigner, I decided. English, German, Austrian, whatever.

I let him walk up to me before acknowledging his presence with a self-righteous nod.

"Mademoiselle, it appears that we are complements of one another." That was all he said. His voice sounded slightly familiar, but I knew it was illusioned – as was mine.

I didn't respond.

My two personas were at a stalemate – one to one. Marc Antony laughed.

"Antony and Cleopatra… perfect. Would you care to dance? A lovely waltz is coming up." Antony held out a hand for me to take or deny.

_Take it._

I didn't know you were such a softie, Gwen. I thought better of you.

_Handsome foreigner who can't recognize you, nor you him – how could you go wrong?_

Gwen! I am ashamed!

_Hel_lo_? Where's the hopeless romantic in you I've cherished for so long?_

That was when the voices in my head finally took control of my vocal cords.

"Nyes," I cheerily stated. It must have been the stupidest think Marc Antony had ever heard, but he dealt with it well, by taking my hand and pulling me – somewhat forcefully, I am not eager to admit – amidst the dancers. 2 to 1, in the favor of softie voice.

Maybe I am losing my touch. But it was just one dance. It couldn't hurt. And the waltz _was_ a very nice one; Marc Antony had very nice musical tastes.

As we danced, we held little conversation. The little voice in my head talked a lot, but I did my best to ignore it. It had, after all, roped me into dancing with this – this _person, _of unknown origins or loyalties –

_Who also seems to be quite attractive._

Like that. It was trying to ruin me. Draw me away from my purpose of finding Gregor and the new recruit.

Then again, the voice was right quite a bit. He _did _dance well – this was probably the first time I'd ever really noticed something like this about anyone. He had a nice jaw behind his mask as well – provided it wasn't illusioned, anyway. This was really the first time I'd ever truly enjoyed dancing – a stranger I could pretend was perfect (and could waltz), and me, unrecognizable for anyone to have prejudice. Maria was right, in a way. It was nice to be someone else for a few hours…

"Mademoiselle…?" The waltz had ended during my moment of introspection and Antony was requesting my name. Funny how I had just been pondering names, and how they ruined everything… (Well, kind of.)

On impulse I smiled, "Monsieur, I am Cleopatra. Trust me when I say that a rose by any other name does _not _smell as sweet."

I bowed.

I 'flitted' away.

_That _was style.

I didn't even check to see if Marc Antony would follow me, or stare. That was actually when I remembered that there was an actual point to not feigning sick for this masquerade – sick old lady. Yeah. That assignment. But who to ask…

I walked around for about thirty minutes doing nothing, but pretending to do something, because God forbid someone should ask _me_ to dance. Anonymity was somewhat of a disadvantage in this manner – no one would ask Gwen to dance, but Cleopatra? Bring it on.

As if on cue, an elbow materialized at my side.

As if on cue, I jammed the owner of the elbow in the side with my own elbow.

As if on cue, the owner of said elbow ejaculated, "Ow."

I looked at the man I'd run into distastefully – Gregor. Upon further assessment, however, my distaste changed to puzzlement (I did not show this change in demeanor to Gregor, however) – If he had not lied to me (and it was very possible that he had), Gregor was the King's brother or something. Yet here he was, dressed all in black, in the uniform of a waiter, small white eye-mask disguising his eyes. It wasn't a masquerade either – that, or it was an excellent one – for he was carrying a tray of small glasses of some sort of profligate liquor. (A few of them were empty, and I had the occasion to wonder at whether this was an actual masquerade costume, and if he would periodically empty a glass to satiate his own gluttonous palate.)

"What, precisely, are you _doing_? Lurking in ballrooms doesn't suit you – you should stick to pubs. And what is with your – erm…" I hesitated to find the right word, "_ensemble?" _I smirked – sarcasm is much crueler than an unkind phrase.

Gregor did his best to shuffle his feet and look embarrassed, but it was all an act. His voice didn't hold any of his mock discomfiture.

"Follow me. Twenty foot radius," Gregor whispered urgently. I leaned back on my own feet for a few seconds, thinking.

"Why?"

Gregor glared.

"Honestly, why? Do you honestly think that I will follow _you _around? I want explanations."

"And if you follow me, you'll get some."

I followed him, even though his phrasing was not lost on me – "some." I did go about limit testing just to prove to him it was fully my choice to follow – stopping every once in a while to stand around, getting out of his special little twenty foot radius, etc. He deserved it, though. As I've said, many times before, Gregor is a jerk like no other. He takes the grand prize… then again, Freestep, Lamont, and Griffin come in close… I might have to reevaluate my scale. Anyway, Gregor (it just struck me that I'm not sure I know his last name – it provides a handicap, because without it I cannot be properly surly) was decently annoyed with me by the end of our walk.

He'd led me to a small upstairs apartment. It was rather cold looking, but a fire was burning in the hearth, and there was a nice view of the gardens outside the window. It was dark out, and the way the stars seemed to reflect the torches of light in the gardens was very picturesque.

I took a seat, and stared at Gregor, willing him to hurry up with informing for what purpose he'd brought me here. He took the cue.

"There's an elderly woman in the next room – she's very sick. She's sleeping right now, but there's something strange about her. I need help – you'll see. She collapsed on the Covington's doorstep last night, and I think she's dying. It was all I could do to make her my charge."

I looked at him blankly. Of course, it was very nice of him to whisper so as not to wake up the woman in the next room, but he'd just taken me to the quarters of some sick lady for no apparent reason.

Even so, I had no time to protest his unfair treatment of me, for Gregor took my arm and dragged me into her chamber, not even considering if she was contagious or not. I must say, he is quite a nice, chivalrous person, when he wants to be, but a touch of… _obtuseness_ permeates all that he does.

My remonstrations died in my throat when I saw the woman. She was sickly in a sense that I don't think I'd had the misfortune to encounter before – sweat was plastering her hair to her face, and she was completely unconscious. Every few seconds her eyelids would flutter, and she might move slightly every so often, but she was demonstrative of sickly. The strange thing was, I don't think it was her pale face or her soaking hair that evoked pity in me – it was her posture, for even for an unconscious person, she looked as if she were about to die. She'd given up on life.

It was one of the saddest scenes I'd ever seen that didn't relate to me.

That was when I noticed the bottle on the bedside table.

I looked at Gregor dubiously.

"You've been _doping her up?" _I must say, my sympathy was immediately and possibly irreversibly washed away by incredulity – they'd dealt with an old sick woman by giving her whiskey, and by the looks of the bottle, quite a bit of it.

"Um…" It came as no surprise to me that Gregor didn't know what to say.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes, suppressing the laughter that I knew would come. "Imbecile."

"What would you have done? Seriously, I'd like to see how you cope if a sick lady collapses on your doorstep."

"First of all, it wasn't your doorstep. Second of all, I wouldn't have given her whiskey; she doesn't seem to be in pain, just… well, she seems ill." That was my best comeback, I'm not so proud to say. Don't worry – I'll try to do better next time. 

We both stood there in silence for a few moments, then the woman let out a groan, and her eyes actually opened – they were a pale blue, unnerving, that you don't see in very many people.

She blinked, three times quickly, as if clearing her eyes, in the manner that Sleeping Beauty might have when the prince kissed her. Then she turned to Gregor and I, a starry light in her eyes.

"Please, let me speak with Gvensar… my baby… I have not seen her for years…" she had a thick, almost Russian accent that distorted her words, and her voice was pleading.

Gregor and I gave each other A Look.

"Gvensar, milady?" Gregor gently asked the woman, and knelt by her side.

"Yes, Gvensar Arielta Quasalion… I should never have let her go…" the old woman shut her eyes, and her face relaxed, as if she were dreaming. "I have something to tell her…"

"She's not with us right now, however if you'll describe her, I'm sure we can find Miss Quasalion…" Gregor trailed off, the last name dying in his mouth as it registered. "Madame," he continued, softly persuading, "what is your name?"

Completely ignoring the second question, Madame began to describe this Gvensar. "She is beautiful… stars flock to her face, and the sun sends rays to adorn her hair… when she smiles, the world is at her feet… my dear Gvensar…" She went on and on. It may have just been me, but as I listened to her long flowery description, I noticed that she didn't use any direct adjectives – no hair color (but it was implied to be blond), no eye color, no height… there were nothing but pretty similes and complex metaphors…

"You haven't seen her in years. You don't know what she looks like." This was not the time and place for my abrupt and vocal conclusion, but it didn't matter.

"Oh, but I do. I can see her face even now…"

"Then what does she look like?

"Dark eyes, I can't tell what color, just that they're dark. Her hair is every color, from black to blond, in stages, the lightest at the front. She has heavy eyebrows and eyelashes, and rose colored lips…" the woman's voice faded out.

Gregor and I gave one another Another Look.

In fact, we were in the middle of giving one another That Look when the woman's eyelids flew open, and she started hyperventilating. We both knelt, unsure of what to do.

"She's coming, oh I can tell! My Gvensar, here!" The woman took my hand and stared through me with her uncanny blue eyes. "I leave everything I have to you, my dear… I have no legal will. I don't own much, but this is what you will need."

I was getting intimidated, and it was tempting to draw my hand from her grasp, but curiosity got the better of me. That was beside the point; I was an heiress to a woman I didn't know. A poor woman, sure, but still; me, an heiress. It was a nice thought. Admittedly, she thought I was this Gvensar, but she'd addressed me as you.

I stared at this poor woman as she dug through her pockets for something, the struggle made ten times more difficult by the way she was overheating and weak. Finally, she took out a small box and pressed it into my hand, which she was clenching progressively harder. I still didn't dare take my hand away to find the contents.

"You're the last Quasalion, my Gvensar. The last. I love you – always remember that. I wouldn't have left you if I didn't have to…"

Her hand stopped clenching mine and her form lay limp in the bed. She'd died with her eyes open, staring out with their eerie ambiance. I couldn't close them; for what little time I'd known this woman, I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge that she was dead, and it had been on my watch.

Well, Gregor was there too.

But he didn't really count.

A tear dripped down my cheek, so I turned my face away. There was something wrong with this picture – I was stealing Gvensar's – whoever and wherever she was – fortune, her mother's dying words, all of it. I chided myself and tried to sweep away my guilt – it wasn't my fault that her mother had problems with hallucinating. Silently and furtively, I slipped the box into my reticule.

"Gregor, it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what to do now. Everyone will understand – everyone who knows anyway. I've got to get back to the ball. I've been away too long already." I turned away, not awaiting his response, and dried my watery eyes. It was only then that I realized I was still in masquerade.

Huh.

I was downstairs amidst cheer and dancing and reds and golds again, amidst naivete and joy. It seemed so messed up that none of these people should know of an anonymous old woman's death – and really, if they had known, would they have cared?

Society is screwed. I'm glad not to be much a part in it.

Then again, here I was – Cleopatra, all decked out in red and gold myself. Figuratively, anyway. That was a nicer outlook on life – that maybe, we are all

sympathetic and empathetic behind our masquerades.

Then again, maybe not. The apocalyptic version was more in tune with reality.

Standing in my moment of introspection, I didn't notice that Marc Antony had approached me with a look of demure perplexity upon his face beneath his mask.

"Mademoiselle, would you care for another dance?"

_In the end it's just one dance. And what is one supposed to do – must one mourn constantly for someone one never did truly know? There are times for principle, Gwen – this is not one of them._

He still couldn't recognize me.

I smiled.

"Monsieur, I hear that there is a perfectly lovely waltz coming up."

He smiled.

We danced, again, and we would've danced after that but for the fact that it is not becoming of a Young Lady of Status to dance with the same gentleman several times in a row and exclusively. Don't get me wrong – I wasn't falling in love or anything stupid like that; it was just that it was nice to pretend I had no care in the world but to make a few moments perfect in the name of another.

In hindsight, I think it was the 'name of another' part that really made the whole masquerade pleasant at all.

I stayed another hour (I had to leave before the unmasking, you see – that could have been an issue that would live on and provide me problems for years to come), and basically camped out beside the buffet line along the side. It wasn't really supposed to provide a full fledged meal for anyone, but it was adaptable. And the food was of an excellent quality.

I'm writing this the night of so that I forget nothing. Not that you want details, but I'm generous that way. In any case, the whole point of telling you the time was so that I could inform you of my opinion of masquerades knowledgeably.

I've decided they aren't so bad after all.

In fact, I believe I shall influence Aunt Eloise towards going to more of them. Unfortunately, they are not very often held, even here, in high society. Maybe I could get AE to hold one here, instead of the series of balls she was planning on. I daresay, any extension of my personal or mental being into society would please her exceptionally – she would be glad to humor me.

In any case, even though this did only cover one day in my life (not even that, really), I had to send it to you as soon as possible. Maybe next time I can give you a bit more than one masquerade, maybe not.

Oh. Drat. I just realized something – I still have no clue who that one new recruit is, or about Spiristor.

Ah, well.

Maybe I shouldn't have danced with Marc Antony.

That's another reason I'm sending this to you now – tomorrow I may not be able to stomach the amount of weakness I displayed tonight; I'd have to go into denial to you. But for now,

Thoroughly confused,

Gwen

**Hello. Sorry for the delay in update; I was just inspired and wrote all of this in two sittings. Sorry that it's kind of out of character for Gwen - I really don't think it is, actually, I just think it's a facet of herself that she doesn't show often - but though I say truthfully that Gwen is not me, I could not say truthfully that I do not influence Gwen's conditions. For example, I love the concept of a masquerade - and here, that makes a showing. So yeah; not typical of Gwen, but it still kind of fits.**

**Sorry if there was little humor here. I don't really know what to say, but for the fact that this is the beginning of a semblance of a plot, really. Before this, I could go anywhere. After this chapter, there are only so many routes I can take. I had to think a really long time about this, but in the end, I think I made the right decisions regarding the conversations with Gregor and the Sick Lady, and even Marc Antony. Yeah, it's all very confusing, but in the end it works out - somehow. I've tried to make sure it does.**

**If anyone is reading this, I would like to ask a favor. Yeah, reviews would be nice, but I need to figure out the loose ends. What I really need help with is figuring out what and who and all that - so I welcome reviews and questions. What I mean by questions is this: you ask about something you don't know or find confusing. I won't answer your question unless it's already been answered, and I might hint at what is to be. When you ask questions, you force me to answer them in order to have follow through. Example: If you asked, "What is the significance of Lord Fairfax or Emily?" then I am reminded that they can't just vanish off the face of the Earth, and they have to play a role in the plot, so then I come up with one and hint about it and put in some nuances.**

**So, in case you haven't quite figured this out yet, I haven't really truly come up with a direct plot yet. Sure, I know what it will be about in general, and I have more of an idea of what will happen than all of you, but I really don't know. And that's why this chapter is kind of important - it blocks me in to a few plotline choices. So yeah, I suck as a writer - I didn't actually outline my book properly. Well, so far it's worked anyway. And I'm trying to outline some, now - now that this chapter is out, and I can't just blunder along happily.**

**So. Yeah. Please review. Thank you for your time.**


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